Blackout
by La Flamingo
Summary: It was Cain who whispered in his ear and told him to sit in the bench. It was the unknown Webb that saw the figure walking by and told him it was the brother. He knows now that nothing is coincidence, but perhaps that realization is too late...
1. Flushing Meadows

**(Sniveling Disclaimer:) **Do not own. Would like to. Property of the late Robert Ludlum as well as Universal Studios.

For this story, which I started as a ramble but suddenly realized had a plot, there will be both movie-verse and novel-verse, since I found that there were good sides to both. Exposition setting is right after the end scene in the _Bourne Supremacy_, shortly after discussion between Bourne and Landy.

Just a little tid-bit of info: The disorder that Bourne suffers from is not, per se, "amnesia"...it is a side affect of both multiple personality disorder scribbled in with a dissociative fugue. A fugue is frequently characterized by "actual physical flight from an environment and amnesia", and is usually triggered--in MPD's, that is--by certain memories (frequently traumatic) that cause the brain to shut-down and allow the usually passive personality to overcome the waking self. In the case of Jason Bourne, the passive personalities are both Cain and Bourne, and the waking self is the not-yet discovered Webb. With this in mind, the story might be a little bit...different from the usual fare.

Well, hope you enjoy. Please review and tell me if anything is wrong.

LF

* * *

That was the thing he loved about New York. 

...Loved and hated.

The second that Bourne was down the elevator, sweeping out of one of the many monstrous skyscrapers that hovered over the bee's nest of New York City, he was no one. Just another face in the crowd, periodically hidden as taxis, the rare civilian car and people swept by, oblivious to his presence, his name...even who he was. No identity. No knowledge.

Nothing.

But Jason knew better.

He knew a lot better.

He knew as his feet hit the first step of the stairs, heading through the yawning chasm of the subway entrance that he was no longer an anyone. He knew that the second he was down in that subway, someone was watching him, observing his actions, and wondering what he was and what he did for a living. Though the muted colors of the clothes, the short—now brown--hair and not-too striking face was not a different sight in New York, Jason knew that he was still a prime thing to watch.

Why?

Simple human curiosity. A curiosity fueled by intelligence and the need to _understand_ what someone was, and who they were.

Unfortunately, both those things were objects that Bourne could not grasp. They were just barely beyond his reach, gloating at him. Fragments of memory would dart by, telling him that they _knew _what he was, and who he was...but they all refuse to tell him the truth, and to let him in on reality.

Cain mocked him.

_Who is David Webb, Jason? Can you tell me?_

_I don't know. _

Cain laughed, cynically ripping across his brain.

_Of course you don't know. You don't know anything at all..._

The train barreled along the tracks, screaming in its metal fury and bringing with it the hot breath of machinery, a man-made breeze that flooded the dreary settings of the station and caused a few coats and hair strands to flutter in the breeze. Grinding to a halt, and barely making the mark in the process, the train slowly jerked, and the doors slid open with a slight hiss.

First, it is courtesy. Those waiting to get in move slightly to the side, expectant from attack from the inside. When they get none, they seize the chance, shoving their way into the cars and grabbing at a seat or pole in the proud declaration that it was _theirs. _No one can take that seat from them. No one.

...That was, until their stop came up.

Then it was fair game.

Jason didn't bother to wait for those in the car to come out–it is ten in the morning, and though the lunch buzz would soon accelerate, right now traffic below the grounds of New York had steadied down to a quiet hum.

He would find a seat. There was no need to rush it, no need to hurry. There was no real place Jason had to go, no real home to flee to, so the best he could do was take his time. Washburn, in the few moments when he was not completely drunk, told him so frequently.

_"Rushing the mind will not make it come back any faster for you."_

_"Then what will?" The unnamed man–Jean-Pierre--sat defensively, eyes watching the doctor's pacing with a sharp observance. As Washburn walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet, Jean-Pierre responded what again._

_"Doctor?"_

_Moment's pause. Washburn reached for a paper-towel, and ripped it off the dolly before spinning around, eyes glittering. _

_"Patience." The towel flew into the trash before Washburn continued, "The mind goes at its own pace...not yours."_

_The unnamed man leaned forward in his seat, unsatisfied with the answer, and made a low sound in the back of his throat. "That's not going to do."_

_Washburn snorted, and turned towards the door before stopping, and pivoting his head. _

_"It's going to have to work for you, my friend. You are only crucifying yourself by thinking. Don't think. Let go."_

_"How?"_

_Washburn shrugged, opening the door and moving through the doorway. _

_"Only you can figure that out, Monsieur." He stopped once again, and a faint smile perched itself on his lips. "My only job is to get you out of here."_

So, he had to let go.

Fine.

He could do that, in the subway, can't he? He could let himself let go amid the rocking motions of the train car, the screech of metal on metal and the suffocating heat, right?

_You don't know unless you try, Jason. So let go._

Jason slouched in the seat, and tried to back out of his own racing mind, taking deep breaths and focusing only on the darkness that surrounded the subway. Slowly, the mind allowed itself to submerge. Memory began to ascend to the surface, just barely floating.

_Who is David Webb?_

Landy wouldn't have told him that to bait him on, to goad him. It wouldn't have been in her best interests to do such a thing–even if it was to somehow get him wound up in yet another goose-chase. What she had said seemed real. The words had jolted memory...and nothing fake could do that to the mind.

_David Webb. Who?_

_Think, damn you! It's not that difficult. Who is he to you?_

_Pen...Paper...I'm–I'm writing._

_What? What are you writing?_

_I don't know._

_That's not going to cut it. Think harder!_

The memory glided to the top, barely making contact–

_It's paper, a contract. There is his name, scribbled messily on the bottom of the sheet, in his hand but not in his name. He sees it, acknowledges it._

_"Are you sure you are willing to go through with this?"_

_Jason _knows_ that voice, that gravelly tenor filled with cynicism and a sharp intelligence. It followed him and haunted him for years._

Conklin.

_Jesus, he doesn't want to go through this again, doesn't want to see another killing. Not here...not now..._

_But there's no murder. There's only him. Only this paper. Only Conklin leaning across the table and watching him, face seemingly ten years younger, but just as cold. _

_Words. This man–his name that Jason recognizes but doesn't _know_--replies to the question in a low monotone, reminiscent of today:_

_"I told you...I'll do anything it takes."_

_Conklin's eyes search him, scanning for lies and for truth. He sees something of a paradox, and leans backwards, lips pinched._

_"So be it." Conklin reaches forward and gently takes the paper from Jason's grasp. He glances at the signature on the bottom, and then over the sheet at the man sitting across the table, then back down at the paper._

_Visible sigh. Conklin pushes himself away from the table and motions towards the door. It's then that Bourne notices how white the room is–how sterile. _

_It's like home._

_"Come with me, Webb." Conklin reaches for the doorknob and throws the door open. "We have a lot of work to do–"_

Something jostled his foot. Jason reacted instantly, jerking backwards and throwing his eyes open.

A little girl with a huge lollipop in her mouth stared at him, eyes wide in something resembling fear. Bourne glanced down to see one of her tennis-shoe clad feet positioned where his foot once was.

_Are little girls enemies now, Bourne?_

An apologetic smile. Bourne inched his foot backwards and moved away from the frightened kid, who now stood in the shadow of her mother. The woman shot him a half-apologetic, half-wary glance before ushering her child towards the door. Within seconds the duo had rushed out, fleeing from the strange man and from the strange place called the subway.

Mind blank for the most fleeting of moments, Jason blinked and tried to reorient himself, glancing down at his watch and then narrowing his eyes to analyze the sign of the station outside.

Forest Hills and Seventy-First.

_Flushing Meadows._

The park wasn't as famous as Central, granted, but Flushing was, in it's own way, a small slice of nature amidst man's concrete jungle.

_Get off here._

Jason obeyed mechanically, pushing himself off the hard-plastic seat and slipping through the subway doors right before they squeezed themselves closed. The platform was in somewhat of a hurry, with voices filtering down from the world above and people moving up and down the staircase, but not as flustered as one might imagine.

Thank god.

Up the flight, out into the sunlight Bourne went, backpack slung over one shoulder. As he stepped outside, a gust of muggy, hot, New-York-summer air slammed into him, momentarily sending the man off balance, and he blinked. Cain was guiding his movements, now, and he did not know why this–of all places–had been his stop.

_Just move._

Once again--blindly--Jason obeyed, not thinking nor reacting. He allowed Cain—the voice--to guide him, allowed Cain to tell him to avoid the man on his left, to be careful for the young kid tailing carefully behind him (_possible pickpocket, _the voice whispered), and allowed Cain to drag him towards the heart of Flushing Meadows, and towards a somewhat simplistic bench near the vast globe that was now the new "soul" of the park. Jason sat down, instinctively giving looks to all flanks before relaxing slightly: "blending in".

He was, after all, the _Chameleon_. The famed monster that had been Conklin's blue-ribbon winner for a good ten years and had been Treadstone's million-dollar-baby. He was invisible, non-existent…a part of the scenery.

Such a gift was not to be wasted.

Conklin had known that.

Abbott—the arrogant bastard—had known that as well.

So now Bourne would blend in. Cain had receded out of his skull, leaving him with the ever-present shadow of instinct and with the ghost of memory flickering behind the temporal lobes, and now Jason was alone. He would take in the sights around him, analyzing and evaluating each motion made by every human being, and he would bask in a quiet solitude.

…If such a thing could exist.

_"When you watch these people, Bourne, what do you see?"_

_The two are seated on a bench at Dulles International, observing the sights and sounds so discreetly that from a distance, it will entirely appear that they were complete strangers, stranded on the same seat with no previous arrangement except with destiny._

_Bourne's eyes flicker at the question, scanning over the nearest carousel quickly before glancing down at the newspaper in his hand. _

_**REPRESENTATIVE LUCA NEICKAO ASSASSINATED**__it reads, headline screaming of a cruel crime against humanity. Jason allows his eyes to float over the subtitle and the photo accompanying it—car bomb wreckage—before shooting his mentor a sideways glance. _

_"I see organized chaos," Bourne says after a moment of silence. Conklin gives a grunt—he never liked that chicken-soup bullshit—before idly allowing the rolled-up magazine in his hand to hang. He leans back on the bench and puts an arm on the back, eyes still scanning like a never-ending camera._

_Yet another beat of silence. _

_"That bullshit, Jason, is not needed here." Conklin uses the magazine as a discreet pointer, flicking it to his left before switching his gaze to his protégé. "Do you know why?"_

_Bourne has heard this lecture before, and has become so used to it that almost mechanically he replies in monotone. "No."_

_Another angry grunt. Bourne keeps himself from looking at Conklin, and instead violently jerks open the paper, eyes blindly scanning over the articles while he waits for a reprimand. _

_"Again, you tell me bullshit." Conklin's drawl becomes sharper and louder as he continues, though he still manages to keep his mouth almost motionless while speaking. _

_"I don't expect lies from you, soldier, and I don't like when you decide it's time to fuck with Daddy. Do you understand?"_

_"Yes, sir."_

_A sigh. Conklin's rage has been deflated by such a dull answer, devoid of emotion, and he leans backwards, anger shrunk for the time being._

_ He has created a machine, and he knows that. No emotions are shown in his creation. It is a walking "yes" or "no", with nothing in between. _

_In spook-world, such a android is revered. It never responds with opinion, never sees gray, and lives in the existence of black and white. _

_But Bourne is different. He is not like D'Anjou, nor the Professor or Castel. The Professor is indeed a marvelous creation—non-responsive, unfeeling, non-reactionary. And Castel, --in his own brutality--is an excellent killer, but Jason is different. His background—now all but burned or buried deep in the limbo of Langley—is substantially separated from the violence and cruelty that most of Treadstone's finest immersed themselves in. It is not peaceful, by all means, but it has a different edge to it. _

_An edge that brings forth a mind._

_ Conklin knows there is a mind in there, and knows that it keeps to itself, but wants to find out what is in it. _

_...Because something tells him that if he does not understand that mind eventually, it will kill him one way or another. _

_And such a thing is unacceptable. _

_Bourne coughs-- a dry hacking sound- before folding up his paper and bracing himself in a motion to leave. The sound of impatience pulls Conklin from his introspection, and he allows his eyes to focus carefully on his prize pupil, who now is standing up and shouldering a backpack slowly. _

_"Where?" Bourne asks, sounding as dull and plain as ever. _

_"Gate 67D."_

_There is that flicker of intelligence again, hiding itself but still on the move. Already Jason knows where he's going. He knows the international terminal, has memorized the gates. Nonetheless, surprise does sneak into his voice._

_"Prague?" It is both a question and statement, asked succinctly and without pause. _

_The ticket and file information lie rolled up in the magazine—the most recent _Time_—that currently is held loosely in Conklin's hand. As though Bourne does not exist beside him, he slides the magazine across the bench and near Jason's reach, speaking as he does so._

_ "I thought the change in scenery would be nice. America isn't as easy going about assassinations as Europe, especially when the target happens to be a well-loved Congress member."_

_Jason knows the drill. Before any passerby can see, the magazine is suddenly gone, vanished into thin air and stuffed into a coat pocket. He gives Conklin the least-perceptible nod of acknowledgement before turning on his heel and striding away towards security. Conklin watches for a second, waiting for that moment—ah, there it is—when Bourne evaporates into the crowd, then slowly stands up himself, wincing at the bite of arthritis that sneaks into his left knee. _

_Damn old age. _

The wind rustled through the trees idly, ruffling the collar of Jason's jacket and pushing him back in reality. It was a muggy wind, but somewhat cooler than the surrounding atmosphere, and Jason momentarily embraced the cooler feeling before it slipped away.

Now he was back.

…Still no sign of Cain.

It was funny, that the one being he hated more than the entire corporation of Treadstone, more than that bastard that killed Marie and more than even himself he was now relying on so intently. He had not known this being—Cain—for a long time, but the voice spoke with such a knowledge and control that Bourne felt he was almost obliged to obey it. It had never been wrong, never turned him in a foul direction, and though he didn't trust Cain, he knew when to listen and when to turn a deaf ear.

Now, alone with his instinct and memory, Jason felt rudderless.

_What do I do?_

_You watch, you damn fool. You watch and wait for what I want you to see._

_…Which is what?_

Silence from the other line.

Jason sat, mind blank as his eyes took in the people marching to and fro, some with business suits on and others without—as well as the occasional tourist. Though most of the "outer-world" traffic drew itself up towards Times Square and Avenue of Americas, the infrequent tourist who—by luck or by some strange curiosity—did manage to drag themselves towards Queens never ceased to amaze Bourne, no matter how inconspicuous they tried to appear.

This one, camera discreetly held near the armpit, kept her eyes veiled in sunglasses and her badly colored brown hair held up arrogantly in a pony-tail. She didn't seem natural at all but held an arrogance that almost instantly fit in. Red-lacquered nails clutched at the neck of the camera and her head constantly swiveled about, as though looking for primary targets of shooting as she strode by, gait confident and very alone.

Once again: strange. Jason told himself to watch that one; no intelligent visitor—especially female--to the Fair City of New York would go alone unless they had a death wish or had a secret agenda playing beneath the big picture. This camera-woman would be no different.

Bourne kept his eyes discreetly tailing her before she pushed herself behind the globe, then abruptly found himself pivoting his head wildly.

Maybe it was instinct—or possibly memory—that suddenly demanded he do so. Cain continued to mute himself, sitting quietly in the back of his skull and watching the entire scene with amusement, but abruptly something was screaming at Jason to _look. _

_Look there, dammit! Look now!_

Jason moved without thinking, jerking his neck to the side and suddenly finding the breath in his chest constricted, as though he himself was being slipped through a vise. Memory ripped its way into brain matter, tearing and gouging in an explosive headache that raced through the nervous system, and the body froze itself.

It was a man. Walking somewhat stiffly—not in the best of shape--and with his business coat draped over a shoulder, he entered the corner of Jason's vision and continued to trail by, seemingly oblivious to the stare emanating from a form naught ten feet away.

The man looked familiar.

_Jesus,_ he looked familiar.

_Who? Who is it?_

The man was leaving Jason's line of sight. That figure that suddenly sparked memory was leaving.

_NO. _

He could not let a key get a way. Memory just exposed itself, and he couldn't let it run. Not here. Not now.

_But WHO is it?_

Bourne pulled himself up from the bench, inhaling sharply at the lingering pain that suddenly came from his leg, and tried to keep the mysterious memory-opener in sight. He couldn't lose this person. Not here. Not now. Not rudderless and without a place to go.

Jason started walking, abruptly entering the easy room of shadowing. He wanted desperately to run, but knew it was out of the question. Instinct forbade it. Cain forbade it.

So he began to gently pick up speed, all the while shifting and using his eyes to keep the man in sight.

The brain fought with itself.

_WHO is that?_

_WHO?_

_Dammit, WHO?_

Names suddenly flickered in front of the screen, racing through the inner eye at an incredible speed. Nothing was matching. Nothing was clicking. But then…

_Gordon._

Jason stopped at once, once again feeling something squeeze at his lungs, and heard a mild exclamation of surprise from an unsuspecting bystander behind him who just barely kept from running into his back.

_That's it? You just give me a fucking first name?_

Memory shrank back, feeling wounded, as Cain slid onto the scene, smiling.

_You don't want to know the last name, Jason._

_Fuck you. What is it?_

_Do you REALLY want to know?_

_Yes. God yes._

_Gordon. Webb._

Blinding light struck at Jason, and he took a step backwards as memory once again immersed itself in his brain, shoving images forth at a brutal pace. Jason outwardly shook his head, trying to comprehend what he had just been told, trying to understand…

_DavidWebbGordonWebbDavidWebbGordonWebbisWHAT?_

_Whatisitwhatisitwhatisitwhatisi—_

Cain slapped down the confused inner brain, taking control.

_You're brothers, dipshit._

Jason felt himself falling, felt himself getting ready to faint, and moved backwards.

_Do you believe in coincidence, Bourne?_

Darkness.


	2. Shea Stadium and the Loafers

Gordon Webb, in his starched white shirt, blue slacks and somewhat painful loafers, hates walking.

He hates the muggy air, stifling in its heat, and he hates the pain that his shoes inflict upon his feet, slowly squeezing them until it feels as if blood doesn't exist in the lower appendages. He hates the fact that every day during the eleven-o'clock lunch hour he forces himself out of his office, high above Manhattan, and makes himself walk for a half-an-hour, mechanically eating a light snack along the way.

Gordon Webb is a man with whom exercise has found an enemy.

High school? Yeah, he did track, and foolishly participated in varsity football his junior and senior year, but that was a long time ago. Now, with a light gut perched over the edge of his belt-buckle and the signs of balding beginning to rear its ugly head, he looks at "working out" as a cruel form of punishment and wishes that his wife would stop in her haggling of his condition. Maris hates obesity—and though she is entirely skeptical of the "fat epidemic" she sees playing on the television all the time, she doesn't want her husband to grow into lard. She herself loves running—ugh—but understands that Gordon doesn't feel the same way.

Nevertheless, she tries.

Gordon tried (originally) to dissuade her from her thinking, tried to soothe her troubled mind with placating words such as "the media speaks rubbish, darling," and "my doctor makes mistakes."

…But Maris is no fool. She has taken away the beloved snacks that he had sitting in the pantry, and has removed the temptation of Klondike bars from the fridge. In their absence, she has placed fruit, vegetables, disgusting health drinks and strangely-named health bars. No more Captain Crunch, no more Ding-Dongs and no more Doritos. Now it is apples, protein drinks, orange juice and "real meats."

Gordon isn't sure if this change in his life is enough for divorce, but he does know that the change in diet and in lifestyle is killing him. He hates it.

Of course—and Gordon wouldn't want to confess this aloud—since he has started this cruel diet, the stomach has somewhat shrunk, the cholesterol has backed itself into a corner and is slowly withering away.

…But that still doesn't justify having to choke down those cruel protein drinks, grainy in their texture and disgusting in their taste. Doesn't justify these painful walks he forces upon himself every day, rain, snow or shine.

Today is different in the sense that Gordon has been removed from his normal habitat. Accustomed to staying in the throbbing heart of Manhattan, now that he has been placed at the far eastern reaches of New York, towards Shea Stadium and that god-awful globe thing, he finds himself feeling discombobulated. And though it is a workday, it feels very strange to be outside of his office—his large, non-cubical room that he worked years to get—and out in the real world…and not be playing hooky.

Recent contractors with Gordon's company demanded that a meeting be set up. Their spokesman, a slimy man by the name of Chad Dieter, tried to tone down the demand by making it casual: "Gordon, how 'bout you and I meet by Shea. We'll have a nice talk and get this all sorted out."

Gordon agreed. He loved his company dearly and now, in the midst of a huge trade deal with an Iranian engineering firm, wanted to make everything work out. That was the goal of his bizarre voyage down to Flushing Meadows, and he intended to stick with it. Of course, in the process of haggling with Chad and his sycophant demeanor "you're a good man, Webb, good man" had worn him down, but he finally struck a fair bargain. Dieter, looking pissed, had forced a simpering smile on his face and accepted his punishment quietly. He knew that Gordon wouldn't deal with bullshit, and once the deal was set, wouldn't change anything about it unless something deadly might become consequence. The two politely shook hands, Chad turned on his heel and fled, looking for a taxi, and Gordon threw his jacket over an arm—Jesus, it was getting hot—and began walking.

...So now, Gordon is stuck in Flushing Meadows, feeling sweaty, uncomfortable, and wishing that he didn't have to take the subway back to work, and then from the subway once again go to the family apartment not too far from Fifth Avenue to sleep.

But he knows that it has to be done, and that Maris would be proud of the twenty calories he's burning by walking to the subway and down into its stinky hell.

He is just past the globe, walking somewhat stiffly due to contracting loafers, before instinct rings quietly in his ear.

Webb doesn't feel instinct warn him frequently. He has lived in New York a good twenty years of his life and only has had a couple of times where instinct demands him to pay attention. In every single occasion, Gordon obeys, knowing that he would be a dead fool do think or do otherwise. This time is no exception.

Gordon tucks the jacket in closer to his body, keeping his arm protectively shielding the wallet in his right pocket, and begins to walk at a somewhat faster pace, all the while telling himself to _not make sudden movements. _At one point, Gordon had a friend in the police—brave, tough, ornery bastard by the name of Brian Macintyre—who told him once that sudden movement on both the victim and the suspect's part can cause more damage than slow, clearly coordinated motions.

…Of course, this came from a man who himself had been involved in one of the most disastrous drug raids in the last five years in New York, but that didn't mean he didn't have somewhat of a point. Brian was a smart man—quick on his feet and (much to Webb's envy) in excellent shape)—and when he gave words of wisdom, he meant them.

_Stay calm. Don't walk too fast, and stay calm. _

It may be the sudden exclamation of surprise emanating from behind him that make his feet somewhat quicken in their movement, but from seemingly the middle of nowhere Gordon hears a voice curse in Bronx rage.

"What the fuck, man?"

New Yorkers around the scene continue on their way, knowing the unspoken laws of see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, and push past the scene, oblivious to what appears a pedestrian pile-up.

Webb cocks an ear to the side, straining to hear what the reply is.

"Sorry."

Such an apology is spoken quickly and brusquely, and without sincerity, before both the Bronx civilian and the hapless passerby go separate ways. Gordon wishes that the brusque voice went far away from where he is walking, but instinct continues to tell him that it is there—still behind him, and still shadowing.

The feet want to move quicker, but instinct demands that he remains calm.

_Don't act like a fucktard. Stay cool. Stay calm. If you act alarmed, HE will know. _

He.

Him.

…Gordon tries to think seriously for a moment, glancing around him slightly before moving towards the subway entrance, and guess as to who is following him.

Chad?

It's a possibility, but the guy knows by now that Gordon Webb doesn't renegotiate unless something is going gravely wrong.

Jacob?

…Yes, Gordon's son does work down here, but unlike Maris and Chad, he has no knowledge that his father would be in his neck of the woods.

That only leaves two other options:

1: A pickpocket and/or mugger.

2: An ex-employee.

Hmm. The grid has not narrowed down very much, and to continue thinking about it will not make his escape any easier. It is time to react.

In a quick thought—much faster than what he usually responds at—Gordon finds himself charging down the stairs and slipping in to the nearest big crowd he can find. They're all businessmen, looking arrogantly in charge and uncaring for all those that come near them, and Webb knows that he will blend in beautifully. He quickly pulls on his jacket, and, hugging the amorphous blob at the right flank, tries to put distance between himself and whatever is tailing him. Instinct applauds his quick thinking, but abruptly stops.

_He is still there. _

Gordon refrains from freezing up like a deer in the headlights, and instead tries to keep _moving. _This is no time for speculation; it is a time for reaction, and Gordon feels that if he does not react, he might be very sorry soon.

So what to do?

There are four main subway systems running through the Flushing Meadows Station. E, F, G, R and V. E continues to push its way towards the edge of Flushing Meadows, and ends shortly at Jamaica Center. If he times it properly, Gordon can jump on the train moving west, towards the business district, and quickly switch onto the A route before E finishes up at the World Trade Center. If he takes F and V—the more maneuverable of routes—Gordon can quickly flee back to home.

But he doesn't want this person behind him to follow him that far. And though he'd love to be home now, watching pathetic day-time soap-operas and planning his anniversary vacation soon, he doesn't want to hurt the family. He loves his children, and his wife, and wants to get whatever is tailing him as far away from them as possible.

In that case…there is always G. G, the strange creature which he himself has never really been on but knows eventually snuggles up close to the East River. East River is not exactly Avenue of Americas, but if Gordon leaves G, quickly goes above ground, puts distance between (if he's still there) his pursuer, and then go back to L, he can go back home safely and wallow in paranoia while he sits on the couch in the living room.

It's a hasty plan.

…But Gordon Webb likes the sound of it.

Instinct once again interrupts Webb's quiet evaluation, sounding frantic.

_He knows you know. He's speeding up._

_Move._

Gordon has accustomed himself to be able to pick up the—at first insignificant—sounds of an oncoming train, and knows now that the faint whistling noise emanating from the tube not too far away is his salvation. But he has to throw this person off. The subway will arrive, brakes screeching and silver body shining, in less than two minutes.

Time to react.

Gordon weaves himself in deeper with the group, ignoring the strange look one of the men gives him, before reaching into his pocket and taking out his glasses, rimless and scratched up. He hates the things and is now wearing contacts, but hopes that the current disguise might throw whoever is watching him momentarily long enough for him to get away.

The glasses come on.

Vision suddenly gets a little on the blurry side.

Gordon squints, trying to focus, and rolls up the sleeves on his business suit. Again: it's taboo, and markedly different from the men around him, but in a pinch it must do.

The faint whistling noise is evolving into something resembling a deep roar.

Time is running out.

Gordon sees the F train getting braced to leave, and abruptly notices how close both the group and him are to the subway. If he can just find someone who looks somewhat like him…

Gordon finds the poor bastard, right at the edge of the pack in front of him. He looks even more clueless than most of the other men that there is an imposter in their midst, and that makes him only better prey. Now to cut him off from the group...

Webb moves himself once again deeper into the amoeba, this time cutting towards the right flank, and suddenly finds himself side-by-side with his victim. Slowly, he begins to lean to the right. In response, the man unconsciously begins to push him towards F train and the open subway doors.

Gordon moves over just slightly. Once again, the man responds by moving closer to the train and further away from the group, and Gordon.

_One more time. _

The man is now not more than two feet from the train. It takes a simple shove and he's on.

_Now. _

Gordon suddenly pushes forward, arms outstretched, and propels the man into a falling leap, his legs bracing themselves at an awkward angle while the body tries to slip its way through the rapidly-closing doors and avoid amputation. Within nanoseconds, the victim has found himself lying on his ass on the F train, oblivious as to what just happened and suddenly angry as he rises to his feet to see that he is no longer with his associates.

The screech of the both departing and arriving trains in the station has reached cacophonous harmony. Gordon sees, naught more than three feet away, his salvation, flying into the station like a banshee out of hell. He continues to stay with the group, counting down his foot-steps as the train brakes, opens its doors with a hiss, and people come out before making his own move, and slipping in through the open doors.

Gordon moves as quickly as he can away from the main windows and towards a corner, keeping his face down and his back to the main platform. Adrenaline streaming through his veins, he finds himself collapsing into a seat only to have his heart pounding through his ears.

Breathlessly, Gordon waits for the stranger to come on his train.

…But such an arrival doesn't come.

Gordon slumps his shoulders, and removes his glasses, brushing them off quickly before depositing them in the coat pocket once again. The sleeves become unrolled. As the train doors slip shut and the train itself begins its rocking voyage, a nervous grin lights on Gordon's face.

He lost him.

…Right?


	3. Subway Reawakening

Failure never was an option. 

It had been ground into Jason, and had been reincarnated in the violent being of Cain. While Bourne would gauge victories and losses, and evaluate whether or not risking his own life or the current position was worth it, Cain would not allow for evaluation or contemplation. It was winning or losing.

Nothing in-between.

Now, having lost what Cain assumed Bourne thought was invaluable to that damned memory of his, Cain stood on the train platform and tried to quiet the rage that was building up at the back of his skull, like a tidal wave slowly gaining momentum as it came closer to shore.

He had to give credit to that out-of-shape bastard—he had caught the Machine off guard. Cain always prided himself on an uncanny ability to predict the movements of his prey, and attack easily and smoothly, and yet this, this _business man_, this _desk jockey_, managed to dupe him.

Conklin's voice entered the scene: _"You got distracted, soldier. Unacceptable. Un-fucking-acceptable."_

He was right, of course. Cain was a machine and, unlike Bourne--who was currently caught in a pit of memory--did not make mistakes, nor get distracted. Everything was cold, calculated and done with a simple accuracy.

No mistakes.

No distractions.

It was that damn memory that was keeping Cain from performing smoothly, and kept incapacitating Bourne. Such a thing was unacceptable, indeed.

But now what? Cain knew that the body was tired, weary from its red-eye flight from Heathrow, London to JFK, and he knew that Bourne, once he regained control, would be confused as all hell…

It was time to rest, if not for the sake of the tired body than for that of the shattered mind.

Cain was not the keeper of memories, and had no idea where he was going. Nonetheless, he had a feeling that if he stepped onto the oncoming train—F—eventually he'd get to a place he recognized.

Cain waited patiently as the train whooshed to a stop, brakes sighing and doors hissing, before quickly sweeping onto the machine. Giving one particular man who stared at him curiously a sharp stare, Cain moved towards the far corner of the train, where both his flanks were protected by the wall-juncture, before slumping down and closing his eyes.

_Your turn, big-boy._

* * *

  
Jason had told Marie frequently about the blackouts. He never spoke of Cain—he was afraid she would become frightened by such talk—but did speak, albeit quietly, about how terrifying those blackouts were. How hopelessly lost and confused he would become when he would awaken to find that he was not where he had originally remembered himself to have been, and instead was in a new, alien-like environment. He still didn't have an explanation for it, not even now, after three years, but only knew that every single "episode" scared the shit out of him.

Marie was no psychologist—thank God—but she did try to comfort him, even though her own brow was furrowed in confusion and she couldn't help but bite the inside of her cheek as he would continue to tell her of the suddenness of the darkness and the strange distortion of the world once he would come back to place.

"_What is it like?" she asks, head on his shoulder. _

_Jason continues to stare out at the sea, trying to put the emotion into words._

_"It's like waking up."_

_Marie frowns, and shifts slightly to look at him. Brown eyes focused intently, as though trying to take him apart bit by bit, she raises an eyebrow._

_ "Just like waking up?"_

_Jason shakes his head. "No. Much worse."_

_"How?"_

_His mouth opens, searching for the feeling that envelopes him during those terrifying moments. _

_"Because you're lost."_

Marie never had to deal with that nightmare, and sometimes Jason envied her for it. She had her memories with her that would not vanish in a speck of dust. She would keep them for all eternity, and would both cherish and hate them. It was an existence that Bourne did not have the luxury of, and though he loved Marie, sometimes the small voice in the back of his head spoke rage.

But: the blackouts.

Terrifying, and disorienting.

Jason knew without opening his eyes that he was on a train once again. He knew that it was the subway from the screeching sound of metal-on-metal that emanated from his sides, and he knew it from the stuffiness of the entire compartment as well as the faint smell of oil.

Passenger trains were far more luxurious.

But _where _was he

_Think._

Jason quietly, once again in control of the fear that just has overwhelmed him, took a deep breath, and tried to think backwards. Abruptly images come into place far more quickly than they usually do, and

_Subway. That we know for sure. _

_What else?_

Cell-phone…Pennsylvania Avenue. A shocked face spinning around…

_Landy. Giving the olive-branch._

_And then?_

_Leaving._

Backpack slung over a shoulder, weaving through the street…

_ Walking out, moving back down to here and then to—_

Flushing Meadows.

_The park?_

_Yes. The park._

_Why?_

Cain told me to do it.

_...Why?_

_I don't know._

Jason felt his forehead gradually scrunch itself downwards as he mentally tried to regain that one missing puzzle-piece. Once he got that, he knew where he was.

_Why _was he in the park? _What _happened?

_Name. It has something to do with a name—_

_Webb._

A shudder ripped through Bourne, and a headache suddenly tore itself apart behind his eyes. Reeling, he snapped his eyelids open and frantically tried to regain some breath, even as quick flashes of scenes that took place what could've been only a half-an-hour ago spun through his head.

Man in business-suit, walking stiffly and out of shape…

_Gordon Webb._

Who, coincidentally, happens to be

_David Webb's brother. _

Jason didn't see the correlation. He knew that _he _was Jason Bourne, yes, but the identity of "David Webb" was still very foreign to him.

Memory hissed at him quietly: _He's your brother._

It only took Jason a moment to realize that he had, in fact, given chase. Quietly, and as only the Chameleon could do it, Jason had risen from the bench and slowly shadowed what he had a feeling was a vital link to his ever-precarious mental tightrope. He had seen him, seen his balding head only yards away and felt something resembling recognition. It had been going all to plan. What stopped it?

Bourne paused, trying to recollect that one second before blackout, and realized _who _had taken control.

Cain.

That monster.

_Don't tell me you killed him. For the love of fucking God, don't tell me you killed him. _

For the first time since Bourne's awakening, the monster spoke.

_No. Your desk-jockey friend managed to dupe me. He got away on another train._

A ghost of a smile lit on Jason's lips.

If he truly knew this figure called "Gordon", he would have definitely felt the need to congratulate him on distracting Cain. To do such a thing is an incredible feat. Jason had trained with the monster in his head for many a month, and knew from experience that nothing could escape Cain's watchful eye. He was as observant and omnipresent as God himself, though with more wrath and rage.

That was what Conklin had liked in Jason (or Cain); he seemed to know what everything and everyone was doing.

Always a plus.

_Focus. _

Jason blinked slowly and took in stock to what, being blind moments ago, he had assumed.

Most of it appeared to be true.

He was in New York. He was on a subway. The time was--

Jason glanced at his watch.

--twelve-fifty-three, and he was heading on the F train towards upper downtown. The man sitting diagonal from him was slightly disabled due to what appeared to be a back injury only a few weeks ago—he was holding himself at an awkward angle, and didn't have complete control of his left arm—and the young group of women hiding in the corner were obviously tourists, their shopping bags clutched close to them as they huddled together for "safety". There was an Asian woman, hair severely held back in a bun, standing coolly next to one of the hand-bars, and beside her a small boy who couldn't be more than six; she had just recently divorced and was bring her son back to the ex's house for what could possibly be a day, maybe two.

None of them were threats.

None of them cared for his existence.

None of them worried.

..It was safe for him to remain as he was.

Jason straightened up, wincing once again at the ghost of a twinge that fluttered through his knee and his back, before making a final decision.

The only thing Bourne had for him now was a small, dingy flat in Reading, where day in and day out he heard the traffic zipping by on Queen's Road and day in and day out he had to deal with the incessant barking of the Yorkshire terrier next door. There was no Marie, no Abbott, no Conklin... Life had reached a plateau, and though at a sub-consciously level he knew he was grateful for the peace, Jason also knew he was devastated at the price which such an _ad neuseum _routine had come at; he no longer had Marie.

Bourne would stay in New York. He would stake out a hotel room, maybe even find an old apartment of his—he knew there was one somewhere in the area—but he would stay here, and find that _man _who carried David Webb's name.

Nothing was a coincidence.

…This was no different.


	4. Lexington Avenue

Three of them are on subways, all going different directions. 

Gordon Webb, we all know, is heading quickly towards L, trying to sort his mind out and shake off the paranoia that clings to his head.

Jason Bourne, back straight and looking resolved, has made a decision about whether or not to stay in New York. He is heading away from La Guardia on the F train.

There is no flight back.

He is staying.

Our third player is stepping out from beneath the bowels of New York at Lexington Avenue, sunglasses glittering in the sun as she twists her neck calmly from her right to her left.

She waits for the crosswalk to turn the desired color.

And moves.

A camera thuds against her sternum, cap sealed tightly over the lens. She is tired of carrying the device; the strap has worn into her neck, leaving (she knows this) a rash in its wake, and she is holding her head at an awkward angle, trying to alleviate the tension in her shoulders.

She finds herself fidgeting with the zoom feature on her camera irritably, red nails clicking as they clench at the sides of the neck and slowly twist. The camera, though now in a manual slumber, makes a barely audible squeaking noise. She glances down, realizes what she's doing, and releases the camera, suddenly dumping five more pounds of tension in her neck-strap and neck.

She's nervous. She won't lie when she says that she feels a slight sense of foreboding, a slight tingle of apprehension.

The target is easy enough. She doesn't ask questions about his background or his personality. All she knows is that a deal has been struck.

And it has been the wrong one.

Normally, this doesn't bother her. Work is work, and work is cheap. New York—her hometown—would be a beautifully easy place to eliminate unwanted baggage, and the fact that she is familiar with the environment would only make the hit so much easier.

But there is an independent variable that has broken into this daily groove.

An interloper.

The arrogant tourist ruse, to a lesser extent, worked relatively well. She knows that the camera dangling from her neck nearly cinched the picture—as well as the terribly dyed, so un-fashionable hair—but knows also that she didn't have the _walk_ down right. She was too cocky for her own good.

In short: she got lazy.

And someone noticed.

She is not sure—to be completely honest—whether or not the man that noticed her is a complete threat, but she knows that he has created a new problem in her plan and that if unwatched, might grow into something dangerous.

Another intersection. She tries to act like most of the New Yorkers: traffic laws are, if anything else, guidelines, and at a red light, she can cross the street, no sweat. The taxis aren't stupid; they'll stop.

So she toes the line, one tennis-shoed foot braced at the edge of the curb while her body leans itself in the direction of traffic, looking for an opening to run through.

She is just getting ready to move when the cell phone in her back pocket buzzes.

Abruptly she leans backwards—a kid who realizes they don't want to go off the diving board—and reaches one hand into the pocket, quickly coming out with her phone and flipping it open.

"Hello?" A shoulder nudges her slightly to the left.

"Well?"

The light turns green. Trying to keep an eye on the street in front of her as well as pay attention to the conversation at hand, she moves forward.

The camera _thwacks _against her stomach painfully.

"I got the pictures."

Silence. "Is that all?"

She reconsiders the circumstances of the situation, and thinks carefully as to whether or not she should tell her employer of the possibly dangerous variable.

"No." She says after a beat. "I think we might have an interloper."

A grunt comes from across the line, hinting at something resembling mild irritation.

"How dangerous?"

She has learned from experience that if she wants to save her own ass in the future, she'll be as honest as possible with her employer…to an extent.

"I'm not sure yet," she replies carefully, her own mind racing over what she had seen in the corner of her eye, and what her instinct tells her. "He recognized me as being out of place, but I think that's it."

"Did you get an I.D.?"

"No," she responds, once again frank. "I tried to avoid eye-contact."

"Any ideas?"

She shrugs, jumping to the side as a scruffy looking teenager barges his way through the current. Damn tourist.

"I don't know. I'm thinking he looks just like every other middle-aged, athletic, white male in New York."

The employer is silent. Seconds go by.

A twinge of fear seizes her as she contemplates the idea that he might have hung up, but then she hears a heavy sigh.

"Be careful, Hailey."

"Yes, sir."

The phone goes dead.


	5. Glass of Milk

**Author Tangent/Rant/Thank You Thingy: **Many, many, many thanks to **Ancient Egyptian Dreams**, grasshoppah-in-training, for her constructive criticism and overall presence; even when I was harshly critiquing her Bourne story (which is quite good, by the way, c-c-check it out), she stuck through, and made it better ever single time. Because of this, I was somewhat inspired to push forward with a Bourne fanfic of my own--which for the LONGEST time I've been avoiding like the plague. Also thanks to **Darlian**, whose eloquent words of praise were definetely nice on the eyes, and to **PretendFan **and **TigerC. **I hope you guys enjoy this most recent installment of "Blackout", and allow me to give my deepest apologies for it taking so damn long. For almost a week this computer wouldn't let me upload anything. It wasn't until tonight that I actually could pull this sucker up and edit it.

So...Enjoy. :)

* * *

Gordon can't sleep.

He lies on his back, eyes staring dully at the white ceiling, and blinks. Beside him, Maris shifts quietly in her sleep. A car honks outside.

Ten minutes go by. The alarm clock glares red-numbers of hate in his direction, spitting the time in a dim rage. Gordon takes a moment out of introspecting what type of paint they used on the ceiling to glance over at the clock. He squints.

Two-forty-five, almost three.

Thank God it's Sunday.

Maris shifts again; though she moves from her side onto her stomach, she elbows her husband sharply in the side, causing him to wince.

Ten more minutes go by.

Gordon begins introspecting again.

It has been a day and a half since his bizarre ordeal in Flushing Meadows, a day and a half since the shattering of Gordon's peace of mind, and a day and half since he made one of the most important deals in his career.

Something tells him that his strange experience might have something to do with the negotiations with Dieter, but he muffles the suspicion quickly. The last thing Gordon needs to be doing is to seizing up in paranoia. He is a smart man, and he doesn't dabble with bad people.

Dieter wouldn't have anything to do with the Subway Incident.

That's what he's calling it now; Gordon can't think of any other possible description for that strange…experience…down near Shea. Nothing else can come to mind except the _Subway Incident_, or the _Subway Problem_; that one time where he actually felt truly worried for his life.

Why? Because it didn't _feel _like there was a mugger behind him. It didn't _feel _as if there was someone tailing him whose soul purpose was to steal his money. Everything seemed sharp, calculating, all knowing and—what's the word?—omnipresent.

Yeah. Omnipresent.

Gordon knows that his subway friend didn't follow him; halfway to the T station adrenaline suddenly left the body and he felt so drained that he knew there was nothing more—for the time being—to worry about.

The man was gone; having melted into one of the millions of unknown faces that day in and day out made their residence in the Big Apple, his attacker had momentarily become another nobody.

Note, however, that five syllable word carefully. Momentarily is only momentarily, and easily momentarily can become something worse, something in the present.

Maris makes a light snuffling noise, and quietly begins to snore. The small sound pulls Gordon out of his reverie and he turns to stare at his wife, her long black eyelashes framing her dark skin almost angelically as her entire face holds itself in a quiet, introspective pose.

They've been married now for almost twenty years, finding each other's company barely after Gordon began going to Cornell in Albany. It was a long, long way from Missouri—from home—but he found rather quickly that he wanted to get as far away as he could from _home _as possible, for it only brought back memories that he didn't want to deal with.

Maris came from a middle-class family residing in the not-too-far away Saratoga, born the middle child of three with a mother and father who kept themselves together long after the age of haphazard marriages and divorces ground itself into society. It wasn't until Maris' mother's death—three years ago via cancer—that the husband and wife were nevermore. Even then, Roy was an upbeat and positive man, reasoning that his wife—Alice—was now in a better place, away from the pain and anguish of cancer.

Gordon knew it was the truth. Alice had interacted with her son-in-law frequently, but more and more towards her death, the mask of perpetual happiness that she wore on her face began to slide off, revealing the darker, more gloomy and desperate side of the woman's persona. Sometimes when Gordon would speak to Alice, she'd blink groggily and he could see, hidden behind the morphine and chemo, a woman who was terrified of her death.

Gordon never told Maris about what he saw in that woman's eyes. He felt it would only disturb her beyond what she had already been.

He was probably right.

Yet another noise pulls Gordon out of reverie. Unlike, however, the earlier sleep-noises from Maris, and the sound of the cat padding quietly through the house, this one causes his muscles to tense up instinctively.

Gordon's ears know that sound well.

It is walking.

And it is in his _house._

Oh, no…Is it _him?_

_The Subway Incident?_

Adrenaline injects itself into the system, and the pulse suddenly jumps. Gordon, trying not to disturb Maris (highly unlikely—that woman could sleep through a tornado), pulls himself out from under the sheets silently, and swings his feet to the floor gently. Held in a pseudo-crouch, and armed only with a metal bat he keeps hidden under his side of the bed, Gordon creeps around the bed and towards the closed bedroom door, desperately rolling on the balls of his feet as to mute noise.

The sound comes again, louder and more abrupt.

Instinct tells him to freeze.

_Evaluate positions. Evaluate distance. You can't strike if you don't know where it's at._

Gordon feels somewhat ridiculous, a bat held aloft in his tightly clenched hands and body positioned in a squat, but he obeys. He only prays that Maris doesn't wake up and see what he looks like now.

Now that Gordon is still—pulse throbbing in his ears—he realizes that the noise is more of a shuffling noise than anything else.

_That's irrelevant. _Where _is it?_

Gordon closes his eyes.

It's in this hallway, shuffling towards the kitchen…away from the bedroom.

Instinct sees this as his moment. The sound it turned away from him.

_You can move now. _

Gordon unlocks his knees and reaches for the doorknob, hand shaking from unused adrenaline. His fingertips whisper across the silver surface; nervously he grasps the knob and slowly twists, praying to God that both the doorknob—as well as the door itself—don't make noise.

They don't. The door swings open silently and reveals to Gordon a berber-carpeted hallway lit blue from the full moon outside. Beyond the corner, the eerily-illuminated corridor dissolves into darkness, where one could find the kitchen, living room, and dining room.

Gordon doesn't want to lose the light that the window has given him and penetrate the blackness that is a mere twelve feet away…but as the sound, quiet in its movements, comes again, he knows he has to.

Gordon quickly pulls out of his room, allowing his eyes to flicker to his weapon momentarily. The baseball bat casts a shadow more prominent than Gordon's own silhouette on the carpet, and to make matters worse, reflects light from outside. If he moves incorrectly, he'll be more visible than he already is and thus compromise the element of surprise.

Reluctantly, Gordon lowers the bat--sacrificing protection for the illusion of invisibility-- and shifts forward, hugging the sides of the wall and keeping his eyes fixed on the darkness in front of him.

Silverware suddenly clatters. Gordon has to bite his lip to keep from emitting a sound of alarm and jerking the bat upwards.

_Keep moving. _

Gordon knows that he hasn't blinked, and as he finds himself bathed in darkness, away from the safety of the moonlight only feet away, he can only guess that his eyes are wide as he tries to search for a figure in the darkness of the kitchen. As his own eyes fight to adjust, he realizes that he can use nearby appliances to his advantage. The green light of the oven-clock is dimly illuminates the cooking arena. If he focuses on that spot, he can surely spot a shadow flickering across the area.

…But there's no time for that. Abruptly something rams itself into Gordon's back and, shocked, he spins around, dropping the bat with a _clang_ and running himself into the island. The action sends pain shooting up his back, but he ignores it, instead desperately searching for the light switch on the side of the counter. Fear and adrenaline claw their way his throat as his fingers scrabble for the switch, and internally Gordon prays that whatever struck him the first time isn't there by the time he finds the light.

His thumb brushes across it. Gordon punches his hand towards the toggle and moves it upward. Bright, blinding light suddenly pours down from above.

Shocked and momentarily sightless, he blinks frantically, trying to force his eyes to adjust at the same time as he is moving into a standing position, grabbing at the bat. His hand is centimeters from the metal weapon when a voice makes him freeze.

"Daddy?"

Gordon lets his grip go from the bat. Relief drops him like a sack of flour, and adrenaline throws itself out his mouth in a dumb-sounding "ugh" noise.

Lily, nine years old and olive-colored skin, clutches at her cup of milk carefully and stares at her father in surprise, taking in the sweaty forehead and wide, frightened eyes without understanding.

"Daddy," she repeats, caramel-colored eyes focusing on her father's green ones cautiously, "are you okay?"

Daddy blinks. He blinks again, then one more time, just to be sure, before abruptly unleashing a deep, ragged breath. Gordon motions for his daughter to come forward, and as she nervously takes a step, he snatches her up in a bear-hug. Lily, baffled, tries to keep a firm grip on her pink cup of milk and stands awkwardly in her father's grip. There's a moment of silence, with Gordon burying his face in his daughter's hair, before he releases her and stares her in the eye. When he speaks, his voice shakes.

"Honey?"

Lily takes a step back, and tries to avoid eye-contact. "Yes, Daddy?"

"Please," he says, "please, please, please, please don't ever do that again, okay?"

His daughter's eyebrows rise, still mystified beyond all reason. "Do what?"

Gordon inhales audibly. "Please don't try to get a drink in the middle of the night, all right, Lily? If you want some water, we'll bring a water bottle in your room and you can keep that, but _please_, please don't scare Daddy like that again." He puts a hand on her shoulder, and tries to get eye-contact. "Okay?"

Lily nods, staring guiltily at the tile-floor.

Gordon smiles awkwardly. "Alright."

Uncomfortable silence.

"Good night, honey."

Lily moves away from her father, still clutching at her cup, and slowly shuffles down the hallway. Timidly she calls over her shoulder: "Good night, Daddy."

Gordon stares after his little girl until she scuffles into her room and quietly closes the door, and then collapses, shoulders slumping and head dropping from its upright position.

Rocking slowly on the ground, hugging his knees, he tries to control his breathing and get a grip on his emotions. When he glances over at the metal bat, glittering dully in the island light, disgust seizes up on Gordon and he reaches a hand out to slap the bat away. It skitters quietly on the tile, rolling awkwardly and partially out of sight.

_You almost killed her. _

_I know. I KNOW._

_Are you sure? Are you really _sure _you know?_

_…No._

Gordon feels disgusting.

He feels like he needs a shower.

Unsteadily rising from his sprawled position against the counter, he moves into a standing pose, legs feeling like rubber and nausea causing his mouth to feel sweaty. Gordon looks over at the bat again, and then without thinking shoves at it with his feet, sending it clattering over into the living room. Without sparing a second glance, he awkwardly begins to walk towards the hallway, hand skimming the wall as he passes through the threshold to turn off the kitchen lights.

Bathed in blue-light once again.

Gordon trembles as he pushes open the bedroom door, and blindly navigates towards the bathroom. The door closes—though not as quiet as he would like—and locks with a click.

Gordon barely makes it to the toilet before he vomits.

* * *

The shower is hot.

Boiling hot.

Gordon closes his eyes against the steady stream coming from above and lays his head against the still-cool tile wall.

His skin tingles.

Now is the time to evaluate.

To reconsider.

…He knows, deep, deep down, that before the sound even made it to the kitchen that he recognized it was his daughter. The more logical, down-to-earth, 'Daddy' part of him had reminded him—now it almost seemed as if an afterthought—that Lily almost always got up in the middle of the night for a glass of water or milk. She was, by habit, a light sleeper, and constantly could be found meandering through the apartment in the early hours of the morning.

Common sense.

It was common sense.

_Then why hadn't it occurred to him before?_

Gordon tries to reason with himself. He tries to find an excuse for his behavior.

Nothing comes.

Nothing. And then, suddenly--

_Him._

That man that followed him. That _monster _that has caused Gordon to suddenly be seized by paranoia and by—the most disgusting thing of all—_violence._

Gordon is, by nature, a quiet intellectual who always analyzes the problem before making a move. Even with instinct in the driver's seat, Gordon never acts or has acted rashly in his life. Never.

…Until yesterday. Until today. Until Flushing Meadows.

Gordon doesn't know _why_. He doesn't know why his behavior has suddenly changed, but he feels sickened by it. Over and over he tells himself that tonight he almost killed his daughter. Tonight he almost murdered his child.

Tonight Gordon almost ruined his life.

The heat is almost becoming unbearable. It's time to abandon this hell.

Gordon doesn't even turn as a hand bats at the shower lever and turns off the water with a sputtering noise, and barely notices as he pulls away the screen that surrounds the stall.

The only time Gordon does notice anything is when he gets to the mirror. Now dressed in clean boxers and a plain t-shirt, he angrily takes a washcloth to the fog-obscured surface and wipes furiously at it, quickly finding himself staring into an anxiety-riddled reflection of himself.

He takes a step forward and fills the sink with cold water, then glares at the Gordon in the mirror again.

_You almost killed her_, he tells himself inwardly, before reaching down and throwing the bitterly cold water on his face.

He stares up at the reflection again.

_You almost killed her._

Yet another frigid slap of water.

_You_

Slap.

_Almost_

Slap.

_Killed_

Slap.

_Lily._

Gordon shakes out his head, feeling his brain bounce around inside his head and water droplets leave his skin. He's about to throw more water on his face before his hands suddenly grip at the sides of the basin and lock.

_No more._

He pauses, shocked by the move, before finally _really _looking at himself in the mirror, now that the fog has fully dissipated.

…Jesus Christ, he looks insane.

Gordon's green eyes are now bloodshot with purple bags clinging to his lower eyelids, and brown eyebrows are knitted together in a blind anger and confusion. The thin mouth is pulled down into a disgusted frown. The cheeks look hollow—faint craters on the face—and the hair on his head, propelled by water, stands in awkward dance poses, pointing left and right, up and down.

Gordon doesn't appear to be a man in control.

Inwardly, he tells himself that he is no longer a man in control.

_Go to bed. _

Gordon, hands suddenly feeling cramped, releases his vise-like grip on the marble basin and takes a step back, flexing his fingers. He turns off the bathroom light as quietly as he can and opens the door, eyes squinting as they adjust to the black of the bedroom. He pauses, trying to make sure that Maris isn't awake, before quickly striding around the room and over to his side of the bed. Gordon shoots a fast look at the rumpled sheets he only minutes ago resided in before slipping back underneath them. As he pulls the white comforter up to his shoulders, and shifts positions so that he is on his side, Gordon quietly makes a vow.

If he ever feels that presence again, he's going to find it.

He's going to find that man and kill him.


	6. Sight and Shoot

**Yet Another Rant-Thing:** Now, I know it's customary to place all A/N after the story, but I always like to get it out of the way and dump it on one's lap first. So: **PretendFan**, **Darlian**, **AncientEgyptianDreams, **and the new reviewer **gostlcards**...Thank you for your reviews. They're really keeping me goin' on this thing and I appreciate that. So thank you very much.

Also: I'm not going to lie. I really hate this chapter but understand that it's needed for the sake of a transition. Just bear with me a couple thousand words and we'll get back into the groove.

Enjoy. .

* * *

Hailey likes the shooting range. There, it's only the silhouette, her beloved Smith & Wesson M&P .40, earmuffs and her trigger finger. 

Shooting is therapeutic for her; each bang, each recoil (which, in the Weaver stance only causes her shoulders to jerk slightly), and each shudder of the target sounds like sweet music to her ears. It helps, too, that Hailey is a magnificent shooter. Before she was expelled from Quantico, her firing instructor discreetly told her so.

Of course, Hailey doesn't use the S&W when she's working; it's far too loud and--while a beautiful weapon--doesn't have the magnificent silence of the Colt. Nonetheless, shooting on the range releases tension in Hailey. It makes her more relaxed, calm, and focused, and allows her to let go of the stress that more than frequently builds up as a result of her job. It's more simplistic.

More of a challenge.

Hailey—when she wants to take push herself—sets up the shadow thirty-three yards away and tells herself to aim for the head. Though she knows instinctively that the head is the most difficult area of the body to successfully hit, she enjoys the pursuit anyway.

Today is no exception.

Shadow swaying in a man-made breeze, the target shuttles itself out beyond the seventy-five yard mark and screeches to a halt. Hailey waits a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the distance, before she slowly raises the Wesson. There is a graceful moment of silence before Hailey abruptly jerks her shoulders up fully—arms straight and left eye squinted—and pulls.

The gun bucks in her hand, and the satisfying _snap _of a forty-caliber bullet smacking the target and the rubber wall behind it makes itself heard.

Hailey relaxes her shoulders slightly, lowering the gun. She has the urge to quickly usher the silhouette back to her, to see the damage, but tells herself that she's not done yet. One shot does not make a kill.

After all…Hailey isn't _that _good. Five out of eight times she gets it, but three out of eight she misses the mark. She knows very well that there is no such thing as a perfect shooter, and she is no exception to the rule.

So Hailey brings her shoulders back up. She squints again—though now the lips are pursed—and fires. This time, though, it's a double tap. She's going for the non-stop, eight-in-a-row-knock-'em-dead type attack.

_Bang._

One shot.

_Bang-bang._

Three shots.

_Bang._

Four…

_Bang-bang_

Six…

_Bang_

Seven.

_Bang._

Eight.

Hailey--whose breath has been held--exhales sharply through her nostrils and lowers the gun completely, moving away from the target momentarily to place the S&W on the counter. As she carefully places the pistol on the plastic surface, she pivots towards the red button on her left and smacks her hand down on it irritably. Thirty-three yards away, the target jumps and whines toward her, jerking to a halt five yards away.

Hailey surveys her handiwork and frowns.

…It's bad.

Terribly bad.

Two of the shots hit the head…even then, one skimmed off an ear while another completely blew off the top of the cranium. Another four shot off into the wall behind her quarry, and only two even struck the torso.

…Which, in the first place, she hadn't been aiming for.

Hailey, frustrated, reaches for the gun again, but stops as a voice from the far side of the range calls to her.

"Are we hot?"

Naturally, it's a call to ask if she's still shooting. Hailey moves her hand away from the weapon, turning her head as she does so.

"No. It's cold."

The voice gives a bark of laughter. "Not when you're here. I should watch my ass."

Hailey gives a sound of annoyance before walking outside of her 'cubicle' and peering out to the door at the far side of the vast room. A young face—baby fat still present--stares at her, expression stuck between hostility and familiarity.

"Dan?"

"The one and the same," he says, shifting from his standing position in the doorway to that of a walking motion. Within twenty sharp clicks of footsteps he's three feet away, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

The two evaluate each other.

Dan crosses his arms over his chest.

"Bill called me, told me you were in here," he says quietly, after a moment of silence.

Hailey shrugs nonchalantly, and spins back towards her block. Reaching the gun, she quickly releases the magazine, sliding it out next to the Wesson, before speaking.

"I thought I'd just have a little shooting practice."

Dan grunts.

"You can…but not with a forty-caliber bullet."

Hailey rolls her eyes and throws a look over her shoulder.

"You owe me, little brother."

He frowns. "My debt doesn't nearly amount to the cost of the barrier."

Ignoring the comment, Hailey flicks on the safety, and reaches for a small duffel bag she has next to her feet. Unzipping it violently, she shoves the gun in, as well as the magazine, then turns around fully.

"Look…" she says, mildly exasperated, "it was only temporary."

Dan releases his arms, and takes a challenging step closer. "Yeah?"

Hailey nods. Dan barely acknowledges the verification of facts before continuing.

"How temporary is temporary, honey? You just think you can drop into the neighborhood, barge into my work and say 'hello'? Drop by after five years of silence and give me a chipper little 'how-do-ya-do?'"

Silence.

Dan shakes his head, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. "It doesn't work like that, Hailey. You want to use my fucking shooting range, you inform me long before you come in here and play Big Momma. Do we understand each other?"

Hailey blinks slowly, eyes brewing with a slow-boiling rage, but says nothing. They both take ominous steps towards each other, now no more than a foot apart. Seconds tick by. Dan's eyelid twitches.

…and then he takes a step back.

"Leave," he says, resigned.

Hailey, mildly but not completely surprised by the move, makes a slight motion to step backwards before continuing to stare at her sibling. Dan has already pivoted on his heel and is walking away before he realizes that Hailey is still there. He stops. Jerks his head over violently.

"I said, _leave_, Hailey." Dan glares at her, seething, and then shakes his head, striding away stiff-legged. "Just," he calls, "leave."

Hailey stares at the retreating figure of her brother, then—almost robotically—reaches down and grabs at her duffle, hoisting it over her shoulder and hastily blinking to hold back a tear. As the loud slam alerts her to the departure of Dan, and momentarily Hailey stands frozen, mind and body paralyzed.

…It takes her twenty-seconds before she finally storms out the emergency exit, embracing in the still-humid air of the New York night. Another five seconds before she reaches her rental car, unlocks the door and slams it as she throws herself into the driver's seat.

There, after a moment of painful silence, Hailey has a breakdown, her mouth open in a shriek, tears racing down her face, and hands pounding at the sides of the steering wheel in a helpless rage.

She's lost it.

* * *

_Get a hold of yourself. _

_Breathe._

Hailey struggles to see through tear-veiled eyes to notice that her hands—clutching the steering wheel—are bloodless and white-knuckled.

_Are you done, now?_

She sniffs, trying to release her hand from its position and wincing from the cramp that races up her arm. She quickly wipes at her nose, then at the itchy salt-spots where the water overflowed from the tear-ducts.

More silence.

_Inhale deeply through the nose…_

Hailey sucks inward, closing her eyes.

_And exhale. _

The air goes out in a rush.

_And once again._

Two minutes later, Hailey is Hailey again.

She's back.

…and scheming.

Normally, she is not like this. Normally, she's in, the job is done, wham, bam, thank you ma'am. This time, however, there are more factors involved.

For one, she hasn't been home in five years.

For two: the deadline is quickly approaching, and she's not even ready yet for the kill.

_Ah. The kill. Let's focus on the operation. _

Hailey knows that this hit must look flawless; Gordon Webb's death has to be so beautifully executed that the only possible explanation is a heart attack. They will not find the entry wound, nor will they find the exit. It will be perfect. She will walk up to him—or run into him, depending on how well her guise works come _the day_—and quickly put her hands out, as if to protect from falling.

…from there, the hypodermic will do the rest of the work. Injection clean and easy, exit nice and breezy. Gordon will be mildly ruffled by the abrupt head-on with some bland, young New Yorker face, and continue on his way. Ten minutes later, he'll collapse.

Dead.

Hailey turns the ignition, closing her eyes in bliss as the car growls to a start. A slow smile gradually grows across her face.

Yes.

It will be…perfect.


	7. Cufflinks and the Ultimatum

Monday. 

Gordon nervously tries to correctly put his cuff-links in the cuffs, cursing slightly as his left hand slips off the link and fumbles for leverage. From behind him, striding in from the bathroom, Maris glances at her husband, noticing the frantic demeanor. She stops, a smile slowly growing on her lips.

In the mirror, Gordon shoots her a look.

"Don't even say it," he says crossly.

The left hand slips again.

The smile grows wider.

Gordon gives an angry sigh and is about to turn away from the dresser but is stopped by Maris, who gently stops him with a hand on the shoulder. She grabs at his wrist, and in one smooth motion attaches the cuff to the link before moving on to the other hand. In seconds, the cuffs are done.

He stares at her, speechless.

Maris apparently is used to this type of behavior. The smile on her face still incredibly wide (the Cheshire cat in disguise). The two regard each other carefully before Maris lifts both her hands up to the sides of Gordon's face.

"Gordon, let me be clear: I love you."

Gordon's eyes blink at these words, and he brings his hands to cover hers. The smile vanishes quickly from his wife's face. She brushes a thumb under his eye, searching.

"Let me also be clear when I say that you're not like this"--her eyes search his-- "unless you're nervous. Unless something is really bothering you."

She lets silence fill in the void of her question before finishing.

"What's wrong?"

Gordon opens his mouth, trying to search for words.

Lily didn't tell Mommy what Daddy did early Sunday morning. Mommy didn't ask many questions when she found the bat in the kitchen in the morning, either. It was like an unspoken truce.

…Or, at least, it _was _a truce until the week started itself back up again. The truce that Gordon allowed himself to believe was real is no longer existent. Now that he can no longer shelter himself at home, no longer bury himself in the false sanctuary of his family, and no longer hide from the fact that the _Subway Incident _is still out there, still haunting him, he is scared to go to work.

Gordon, you understand, has never been afraid to go to work.

Naturally, the fact hat he's terrified now only frightens him more.

But how does one explain to their wife in the most diplomatic way possible the reason for very peculiar—and paranoid, for that matter—behavior? What is a reasonable excuse?

When Gordon's larynx finally decides what it's saying, the word pushes itself out of his throat in a garbled, gravelly tenor.

"Work."

There. He said it. A simple, somewhat reasonable answer.

Maris raises an eyebrow, and her brown eyes burrow into his.

She doesn't buy it.

Shit.

Maris sighs, and slowly slides her hands away from her husband's cheeks, resting them on his shoulders. For a moment, her lips purse in a frustrated frown. A glance is thrown down on her wristwatch, and the frown dissipates into an audible inhalation. Maris brings her eyes back to Gordon.

"You're going to be late for work, honey," she says softly. "Just be careful, alright? Don't worry so much."

Gordon forces a small smile to shove itself onto his face, and leans forward slightly to kiss Maris on the forehead before pushing back. He brings his hands to her forearms—still resting on his shoulders—and pinches his lip as he searches for a way to comfort her fears.

"It's just a stage, Maris. I'm —distracted."

She blinks, slowly and very openly skeptical. Gordon searches for a way to drill the point home.

"I promise I'll be okay."

At this, Maris pulls away, eyes suddenly sharp, and brings her arms to her sides. "Do you?"

…Sometimes he wonders why he married a woman who can see through every bluff he pulls up. Then Gordon dimly recalls that when they first met at a friend's poker game, that was what intriguing about her; she could smell bullshit seventeen miles away, and kick his ass at every hand he tried to pull up.

Fine. So he can't lie. Best to just jump around it as best as possible and move on.

"No." Gordon says, finally, his gaze fixed on the nearby portrait of Central Park he picked up at the Met before he gets a grip on himself. The gaze turns itself back to Maris, suddenly deadly serious.

"I can't promise you that. You know that. I'll just try to do the best I can."

Maris' eyes flutter, but she gives the tiniest nervous smile.

"Thank you," she says. Gordon, abruptly realizing how this entire thing started, smiles and raises his wrists, showing the cuffs. Maris' somewhat false smile widens into something resembling relief.

"No, honey, thank _you._"

…When Gordon pulls on his thin jacket and jerks his sunglasses up onto his nose, kisses his daughter on the nose, his wife on the lips, and shoves his wallet into his pocket, he gives himself one last reminder to be strong.

He can beat back this _Subway Incident._

He can do it.

Gordon's feet hit the burning New York pavement—Jesus, only nine o'clock and it is a fucking furnace—with a new, resolved stride. After boarding Mt. Eden, and swaying down to 14th street, the stride only makes itself more prominent.

Gordon Webb has delivered his ultimatum.

_I know you're there. Come and try to get me._


	8. Keegan Halden Has a Feeling

Jason pulls himself off the corner and places himself a very comfortable distance from Gordon Webb, backpack replaced by the simple outfit of a yuppie who just got back from a workout. With a New York Yankees ball-cap cinched down tightly on the head and sunglasses perched firmly on the nose, as well as a simple blue t-shirt, Jason is no longer the man who Webb saw Friday.

He's the Chameleon—and today the Chameleon has decided that the laid-back, average New-Yorker garb will be his weapon of choice. There is no black shirt, pants or backpack to be seen. No eyes, no brown hair.

No Jason.

Today, his name is Keenan Halden. He's lived in New York his entire life as a worker at the docks, and Monday has just become his day off. Why he's down in the Business District is beyond him. What matters is that right now, the Chameleon is back in business.

And business is feelin' good.

Jason blinks behind the glasses, and unconsciously goes up to wipe at his forehead as he turns the corner and finds himself in the glaring heat of the early morning.

Jason has somewhat accustomed himself to the heat; Goa had been a scorching furnace in its own right, with a humidity so heavy it easily could have been sliced through with a knife. None the less, the head of New York is different. For one thing, there is more cement.

And for another thing, there is more glass—and more glass means more reflected light. Granted, the same skyscrapers that bring the blinding glare of the sun also provided the life-giving shade that stretches for blocks upon blocks…but the fact exists that the towering monoliths of New York still bring a strange heat with them today that Jason normally isn't bothered by.

Naturally, the question arises: since temperature normally does nothing to him, why is it bothering him now? He isn't wearing black, isn't dehydrated…he's currently walking towards a shaded sidewalk…why is there anxiety racing through him? Why is instinct ringing bells?

_Maybe,_ Cain whispers, _it's not _where _you are but _what _you are doing that is causing this…predicament. _

_And what am I doing?_

_Isn't it obvious? You're stalking your brother. _

Jason nearly stops dead in his tracks, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise in distaste of the word. Stalking is a bit harsh; for the past five hours all that he has been doing is observing this man—Gordon—at his flat and moving to follow as he stepped outside his doors for work.

Shadowing is--in itself--an easy art for Bourne. He falls into it almost instinctively when the situation calls for it. It's easy to stay behind Gordon and make sure that Gordon doesn't know he's not there. It's easy to blend in and become faceless.

…But something has changed.

Bourne feels anxiety.

Cain is cagey. Quiet, but cagey.

The man—Gordon—isn't the same bumbling businessman that Jason noticed at Flushing Meadows; his walk is more controlled, his back straighter, and there is this…this _look _in his eyes that flashes with a righteous anger.

Truth be told, Bourne is feeling slightly apprehensive about tailing Gordon Webb any longer than he has to. He himself knows that such an abrupt and controlled change in stance, in personality and in body language only means one thing: to a lesser extent, Webb knows that he is being followed. He does not know by what, or by whom, but he knows that someone is following him.

And he doesn't like it.

Unpredictability is always dangerous in the world of humans; it means that someone is bound to snap, bound to crash, bound to implode or explode any minute or take everyone with them. Unpredictability blows any earlier plans to shit and forces one to _adapt. _

…Of course, Jason is the Chameleon—naturally, adapting comes as second nature—but he still feels nervous. Gordon Webb has _changed_, and it has not been for the better. The very fact that he senses that someone is tailing him only makes him more of a liability, and makes him more of a threat to Jason's own position.

He has to end this game soon. Has to find what he was looking for, and get the hell out.

"Watch it!"

A somewhat gruff voice pulls Jason out of his reverie, snapping him to the present as he nearly bulldozes into a short man not more than three feet in front of him. Blinking, he scans across the sidewalk to realize that the street he is going towards is red.

It wouldn't have exactly the best time to decide to cross the street.

_But where is Webb?_

Furious that he has lost sight of the target, Jason frantically pivots his head, searching for the balding cranium that memory tells him is his brother.

It's _there_, turning down Union Square and vanishing behind a group of tourists.

_Goddammit, _he's going to lose him…

Jason considers bolting to pursue his prey, then realizes the foolishness of the move.

_Your mission now is simply follow. Don't track. Don't kill. _

_Follow. The rest will come. _

Bourne closes his eyes momentarily and breathes in deeply through his nose, trying to calm the growing anxiety that is stirring in his gut.

He doesn't like losing sight of anyone, not even for a nanosecond. Experience taught him that within the time it takes one to blink, someone else can be gone.

This is no exception.

The light turns green. Jason, on autopilot, jerks himself forward and tries to avoid eye-contact with the short man in front of him. As the flurry of people transverse across the street, Jason pivots his head once again and tries to catch sight of Gordon.

Fortunately, the man isn't moving at a very fast pace; he's still there, still walking towards the wooded area of the square and moving diagonally towards 16th. Bourne skims over the crowd nearby Webb, quickly trying to spot any anomalies with what he sees and therefore any threats.

There's nothing. A couple of tourists here, some skate-rats and punks there, a few businessmen…It's same old in Union Square.

_…No,_ Cain suddenly says gently as he pushes past the cement area of the park. _It's not._

Jason stiffens. Adrenaline flutters quietly, sensing that its time is near.

_What is it?_

_I don't know yet. But something isn't…right._

Alarm—something that Jason normally doesn't feel—seizes him. Without thinking he picks up his gait, eyes suddenly intense and posture rigid, and bows his head slightly, covering the upper area of his face with the rim of the cap.

_Something _is wrong. Jason doesn't know what it is, can't identify it amid the masses of people and trees, but something is telling him that there is someone in the park.

…But they're not waiting for Jason.

They want Gordon.

Bourne wants to run. Now.


	9. Pinstripe Suit

Blue always complimented her eyes.

Hailey likes this pinstripe suit merely because it's a new disguise. The bulky camera, obnoxious pink shirt and oval-shaped sunglasses have given way to the outfit of a professional. Of a high-ranking (or wishing to be) businesswoman who's going to work and dammit, no one is going to tell her other wise.

She didn't bother following him from his flat up near Mount Eden; she doesn't like the area and knows anyway that he'll walk through Union Square to get to work. He always will and always does, and when he does, Hailey is waiting.

She has been sitting on this bench for two hours, sleek purse held at her side and cheap, five-dollar romance novel held loosely in her right hand. The novel serves as a nice ruse; to the scanning eye, she appears to be a woman on break soaking up half-brained chick-fantasy because her own love life is in the dumps. Unfortunetely, that image is closer to truth than she'd like to say, but Hailey ignores the reality anyway.

It's nine-thirty. Gordon should be waddling his way through the Square any minute. Hailey pulls her gaze away from the book, gently turning to put it in her purse, and allows her eyes to flicker over the coming and going traffic. She notices the fat couple oozing their way past her, digital cameras clutched in chubby hands, and notices the three skate rats who dodge their way through pedestrians, with one moving his head to gawk at her and wink. Hailey blinks blankly in reply.

_You're not what I'm looking for, kiddo. Maybe when you're legal, we'll talk. _

Another look. It's then that Hailey finally finds what she's been looking for.

There's Gordon. There he is. The man with an $8,000 price on his head who's going to temporarily make her rich. He crosses the concrete courtyard, jacket once again draped over an arm and walk somewhat more dominant than before.

Gaze still fixed on her prize, Hailey brings a hand down into her purse and gently taps at the needle, sliding over the smooth, cold and impersonal glass before caressing the plunger.

It feels beautiful. She made sure that the dose was right last night. There will be no mistakes with this one.

He will die.

Gordon takes a few moments before he passes her, a slight smile on his lips. Hailey swears that she can hear him quietly humming.

A small part of instinct tugs at her, warning her that she's getting into a bigger can of worms than she originally realized, but she ignores it. Her prey is only a couple of meters away. It's not the time for warnings, only for reactions.

The time to move is now.

Hailey gracefully flows to her feet and slowly adjusts her purse over her shoulder, withdrawing her hand from the bag and bring it back down to her side. She rolls her head, bringing it to her shoulders and wincing at the satisfying crack of cartilage fall into place, and then relaxes her body.

Another moment passes.

Hailey begins to walk, heels clicking confidently on the pavement as she idly begins to follow Gordon.

Let the hunt begin.

* * *

**A/N: **Whew. We're moving now, aren't we? I hope you guys enjoyed the last three chapters. Originally it was one giant block of text, but I decided that for the sake of style, I'd continue to break out each perspective into a different chapter, from Gordon and Jason to the quietly-frightening Hailey. I'm still trying to figure out where I want to go with this, but it is still great to have everyone's support with this. It's definetley making the experience of word-vomit writing a lot more enjoyable. Thanks **Darlian**, **AncientEgyptianDreams, **and **PretendFan. **

And remember: if any one spots inconsistancies with the story, facts or location, don't be afraid to pop by and say hello.


	10. We Need To Talk

Like any big city, New York is built upon a system of unspoken laws and rights. From the dorky tourist and high-ranking businessman to the blue-collar worker and his kid, no is exempt from the rules of the metropolis. 

Tourists rank at the bottom of the chain, primarily because of their ignorance. Unlike most New Yorkers, who are always moving, tourists shift at their own deliberate and slow pace, congesting traffic and distracted focused workers from getting to their destinations.

Besides this, their loud behavior, constant state of confusion, and arrogance at what they _think _they know never ceases to irk residents of the Big Apple.

Bourne is not a resident New Yorker, but at this exact moment in time he feels a frustration that only can breed itself from being surrounded by primitive, slow masses.

Generally speaking, the Chameleon craves crowds. They act like his camouflage, his forest, his nest. Crowds blanket him in an invisible cloak that standing alone could never create, and for this he almost pangs for masses.

...But now the situation has changed. Jason Bourne is not hiding, and his reasons to blend in are not to save his own life.

He is pursuing and now realizes that his one great protection–his ever-shifting cloak–has dissolved into a solid brick wall.

Jason is grid-locked. The crowd is slowing him from reaching Webb, and has rendered him utterly helpless to defend the man against attack. He is at the mercy of scores of bumbling small-town people who aren't even in the right borough of the city to get to the Bronx Zoo.

...The irony of the situation, of course, is not lost on him. Jason cannot run, for doing so would risk detection.

But he cannot slow down and walk the pace of the painfully tedious people surround him, for doing so would quicken the disappearance of Webb and thus the last fragment of memory.

_But what can he do?_

Cain wants a gun. He wants a Desert Eagle without a silencer, and he wants to pull the trigger in the middle of the crowd.

Cain does not evaluate the situation. Cain sees a quick and easy solution to the plan and wants the crowd to scatter like mice to an oncoming owl. He knows very well that Jason wants the crowd to spread and let him through as well, but he knows very damn well also that there is no possible way the gun could be fired and he could continue shadowing in peace.

Cain and Jason Bourne are at an impasse. It is Bourne that finally makes a move.

He thinks. Fast. Webb's form is flickering through nearby foliage, and as soon as he turns that corner and is swallowed up by the crowd, it will be too late for Jason to reach him.

_Think._

Jason sees the gap between nearby trees and the street. If he bolts fast enough, he can cut to the sidewalk and put himself closer to Webb, minimizing the oncoming threat...whatever _it _may be.

The middle-aged woman and her two kids in front of Jason abruptly jerk to a stop, throwing a wrench in the middle of the well-oiled cogs of traffic and shoving Bourne off balance.

"Look at the _beeautiful _bird, Peter!" the woman exclaims to her seven-year old son, point upwards. Jason watches in faint amusement as the boy blinks, bored with his mother's enthusiasm at a goddamn bird.

"I'm hungry," he states simply. He jerks on her limp arm, and then tugs her to the right, creating a gap in the group.

It allows room for a possible maneuver on Jason's part.

He takes the initiative, dodging past the mother–"but honey, you ate a half-an-hour ago"–and pushing a diagonal path towards the sidewalk. Within seconds Jason finds himself directly in from of 16th street.

Panic momentarily seizes Bourne; amid the sea of faces, he can't recognize a damn thing.

And then...

_There._

The balding head once again appears, bobbing happily in the crowd. Jason allows himself to relax slightly with relief, shoulders dropping their defensive position and muscles slowly releasing tension, before taking a step forward. He has to once again place himself at the twenty-five meter distance and watch Webb carefully.

Jason is quickly closing the gap, nearing meter by meter each second, before his eyes scan the crowd surrounding Gordon and freeze.

...It's a woman. From the pinstripe suit, black purse, perfectly coiffed hair and dark sunglasses, she can only be one of the many working girls in the town, clawing her way up the business ladder through ballsy moves, and feminine magic.

She's just one of the other million women in this town.

Just another...face.

Cain makes recognition before Bourne does. He focuses on the heels, on the walk, then suddenly moves back up to the face, and realizes it.

Memory makes a match.

_Camera-lady. _

There are no such things as coincidences in the city of New York. With a population over eight million, seeing a familiar face in a completely different part of town is unheard of.

Who was it that said, "At any rate, I am convinced that God does not play with dice"?

_Einstein,_ Cain says, lazily. _It was in a letter to Max Born. _

Jason's lungs seize up again, and adrenaline is suddenly screaming through his veins.

No coincidence. No coincidence at all.

_Jesus, _it makes so much sense...

She's been following him. She's been following Webb, taking pictures–_that's what the camera was for_–and waiting for the prime opportunity to whack him.

Jason Bourne knows the rules, knows the system. He doesn't know what Gordon Webb is involved in, and doesn't know what business he works for, but he understands very clearly that Webb quite recently has made a deal that is going to kill him. It's got two-inch heels, a determined gait and a purse, and it's not going to hesitate in taking Webb out.

It's a female Jason Bourne.

_Shit_, that's a scary thought.

...Now, granted, she's not nearly as invisible as Jason, and, granted, she's not nearly as experienced as he, but the fact exists she's an assassin, and therefore is armed to the teeth with a wide variety of weapons with the nice ability to kill.

Normally, death doesn't bother Jason. He's a killer and understands quite clearly what must be done in order to protect one's ass. In the corporate world and both the secret world that he lived and breathed for a good ten years of his life, the basic rules are the same.

But–as it has been said before–circumstances have changed. Jason knows this person (or at least he think he does), and currently he cannot afford to lose this key to memory.

_She must be taken out_.

And just like that, Bourne's focus shifts. The Chameleon is living up to his namesake, reshaping, refining and re-shifting his priorities. In nanoseconds the feet are moving a different direction, the posture is changing and the eyes have become sharper.

What is the biggest danger?

_Camera-woman._

Why?

_She's going towards the target. _

Jason is rethinking what must be done to get rid of this woman cleanly and efficiently. An alley is his best bet, or an abandoned stairway but—as he glances around—there is nothing closely resembling that to be found.

_So now what?_

…The rules of a kill still apply. If the target cannot be eliminated in its current position, it is followed until a more suitable location has been obtained. One does not break off and abandon their kill. They stay with it until they can _finish _it, and can successfully get rid of the hit.

After all—dead men don't tell tales.

It's the living that pose a threat.

Jason notes with a deep satisfaction that Camera-Woman is being held up, jailed up in a man-made prison of ten people, and that Webb is blissfully across the street, continuing on his voyage to his office building no more than one block away.

It is probably only a loss of twenty meters for the woman, but it will be enough. Now that she is held in a tight-knit amoeba of tourists and fellow white-collar civilians, Jason can catch up to her much more easily and discreetly.

The legs move on their own accord. Jason keeps his head down, the cap shadowing a good portion of his face, and weaves his way through people to get closer. A little boy glances at him suspiciously as he sweeps by, but Jason ignores it.

_Just get to the target. _

He's getting closer, now to the point where he can notice that Camera-Woman is holding her right arm at a slightly protective angle.

The stance jolts Jason. He recognizes the position.

_Shit. _

She's going for the easiest and most discreet kill—injection via hypodermic. It's unsuspicious, painless, and leaves no trace. A "ghost kill".

…This changes things, changes the attack and changes the position in which Bourne can move and safely dispatch her. Needles are faster, more invisible, and more lethal than any gun and knife. Jason knows what dangerous brew is sloshing about under the plunger, and he knows that even the slightest slip into his system will kill him.

He's been around too long to allow himself to die by a needle—especially when he knows it exists.

_Rethink the circumstances and move, boy. _

The light turns green. The amoeba shifts briskly, jumping itself off the curb, and moving across the street. Jason quickly shoves his way into the group, weaving his way closer to the woman, and decides.

He'll follow her into Gordon's work. It's no more than three buildings away.

And from there?  
…It's up to the Chameleon to decide.

The broad doors of the _Alistair _office building quickly appear. Jason cranes his neck, trying to get a clear view of Gordon, and see that he has pivoted on his heel and swung through the revolving doors.

Cain quietly tells Bourne that Camera-Lady is speeding up.

_Now's when you run. _

Jason doesn't run; though Cain is wise, but his advice doesn't always follow the guerre de nom of society. Running would instantaneously alert this woman to his presence, and he cannot afford that. Not now, anyway.

…But Jason does speed up, closing the gap between him and Camera-Lady and unconsciously fingering the switchblade in his pocket. He appraises the distance between him and the woman.

Not much longer.

She turns and smoothly strides her way through the glass doors. As her head vanishes from sight, Jason finally puts his legs into motion, bolting forward and shooting through the door before it makes a second rotation. Glass and sunlight glitter in his eyes like a moving kaleidoscope, and it's only when he explodes through the other side of the doors that he realizes he has made a dangerous mistake.

_Fuck. _

Jason is dressed as good blue-collar trash.

He's standing in a lobby predominantly owned by white-collar society.

…There is clearly an anomaly between his clothing and that of those standing around him.

The Chameleon is in a dangerous position. He's in a spot where his clothes will no longer hide him from the world, and where, even if he changed his posture, he would be sticking out like a sore thumb.

_Well, now all you can do is react, huh?_

Gordon is vanishing around the corner, clearly moving towards the elevators.

And now the woman is at a brisk jog, her heels clicking rapidly on the tile floor and her arm suddenly moving itself out to the side.

Oh, no.

She's throwing all secrecy to the wind, throwing all calm and cool poise she had before to the fire as she instead goes for the most obvious and unrecognizable attack.

She's going to run into him, apologize quickly as Gordon feels a mild prick in his leg, or arm, or neck, and then vanish into thin air.

How does Jason know this?

Hell, he did it dozens of times before. It's the oldest and most efficient trick in the book.

…But it's going to kill Gordon Webb.

_NO._

Can't happen.

Jason pushes up the pace, smiling reassuringly at the wary and suspiscious faces surrounding him before breaking out in a flat-out run.

The Chameleon roars its disapproval, Cain screams of imminent attack, and Bourne quietly fights down panic.

The three voices in his head rage at him as Jason whirls past the corner to see Webb idly stepping into an elevator. The woman _still _hasn't noticed the noise behind her, and now hurriedly rushes for Gordon's elevator, one arm held out as if to stop the doors from closing. Common courtesy will reside if she gets within sight of the man. He'll bring a hand out in front of the doors and snap them backwards, and politely motion her towards the elevator, welcoming her in.

And losing his life.

_Oh, god…_

Cain takes control, now, completely ignoring the alarmed yelps around him and instead plowing towards the woman. He shifts past the elevator in a blur of a blue shirt and jeans before grabbing at the woman's arm and jerking her towards a second elevator, which—as if by God's hand himself—opens suddenly, alone and abandoned. He throws both of them in, disregarding her shout of alarm and punching at the "doors close" button.

As the doors whip shut and the elevator ascends, the two stare at each other, evaluating. The woman's eyes blink frantically with shock and fear.

In a flash, though, the composure changes. Camera-Lady jerks away from the corner to which she had been thrown with an animal-like snarl, and lashes out, the hypodermic in full view. Cain sees the move coming and easily dodges to the side as she strikes past him, quickly latching a hand onto her elbow and digging a thumb into the median nerve.

She gasps, face paling, and abruptly releases her grip.

Cain watches in satisfaction as hypodermic falls to the floor and shatters. The woman, still in a daze from what happened within the last ten seconds of her life, stares down at her final life-line then whips her head up towards Cain.

He blinks impassively at the expression, instead flicking a finger idly towards the "Emergancy Stop."

The elevator groans its dissent, but jerks to a halt.

Silence.

Jason--not Cain--clears his throat.

"We need," he says softly, "to talk."

* * *

**Author A/N: **Don't worry, I realize how disgustingly unrealistic this is--but it was the only way I could keep Gordon from seeing Jason and realizing who he was, as well as make the confrontation between Hailey and Bourne (to some levels) a little more lively. Yes, I realize that most elevators are equipped with cameras, and that, yes, in all reality you would not find an elevator in a skyscraper in NYC abandoned, but...give me some credit. It was all that came to mind. 

Okay, **Darlian, AncientEgyptianDreams, **and **PretendFan...**Give me your criticism.


	11. The Interloper Speaks

In that brief moment when Hailey's life flashes before her eyes—don't worry, it wasn't very interesting—and in that brief time span when she attacks, is beaten down, and loses her only escape from the madman in the elevator, Hailey reminisces back to her childhood. To the cartoons. 

She particularly liked Bugs Bunny. She liked his spunk, his pizzazz and his obnoxious, almost worse-than-a-Brooklyn-hag tenor, with a nasality that could not be matched.

…But what she loved the most about Bugs was that fact that, while he never died, he fucked up. Bugs won in the end, but there were times when he made mistakes.

When he got overly cocky.

Ding-ding, did that just ring a bell?

Hailey is remembering most vividly about childhood-slash-Bugs-Bunny the times when Bugs would run himself off a cliff, or out of a plane, or SOMEHOW manage to be free-falling in midair. In disbelief, he'd stare at the audience, hovering as the phantom of a jackass plastered itself over his terrified frame.

And then he'd fall, gangly rabbit-jackass ears flopping in the wind.

Let's be frank: Hailey feels like a jackass. As she sits, curled up in the corner of elevator with the cold blue eyes of—is that the Interloper?—staring down at her, Hailey realizes that she has made a grave, grave error.

Hailey fucked the big one.

She made a mistake when she dressed as a tourist in Flushing Meadows. She made a mistake as dismissing the Interloper as a simple threat. She made a mistake when she called up her boss—damn him—and told him that everything was under control. And she _especially _made a mistake when she followed Gordon Webb this morning and told herself that nothing was wrong.

…Was that why she was expelled from Quantico?

She got cocky?

_Damn right, sister._

Hailey turns her gaze away from the penetrating eyes of her attacker and stares at the shattered remnants of her last (that she can reach, anyway) weapon. Her beloved barbiturate, her heart-stopping savior, is now oozing into the carpeted floor, and unless Hailey can, say, dip a knife into it and stab the bastard across the way, she doesn't having a fighting chance.

A voice sounds abruptly, pulling Hailey out of a momentary reverie.

"Who are you?" the Interloper asks, voice low.

Hailey keeps her eyes downcast, focusing intently on the smashed shards of the hypodermic. They taught her a valuable lesson at Quantico—the second you make eye contact with your questioner, they know your weakness.

Her weakness is very obvious, a vivid scar ripping its way across her eyes and scoring marks in her face.

Hailey's scared.

…But she's not gonna let this sonofabitch know that.

Silence.

"I'm going to ask you one more time," Interloper says, now lowering himself to a crouch with eyes boring into hers. "Who are you?"

Hailey blinks slowly, and then it seems like the world twists again. She's up against the wall, a knife at her eye and an arm firmly seated on her windpipe, no longer on the ground but now pulled up—standing—against the elevator. The Interloper is in her face now, still calm, still expressionless, with the blue glint of a blade held level with her eye.

…It is only the voice that belies irritation, belies impatience. It has gotten sharper, cleaner and very cold.

The question has been cut down to one word.

"Who?" He asks, gently putting weight on his arm.

Panic time?  
Hailey tries to be tough. Honest-to-fucking-God, she tries. She tries to think of all the time she's pulled this shit on other people, got in their faces and scared them, pulled a piece and told them very cleanly that if they didn't cooperate, they'd die. She tries to remember that this is merely a bluff, that he is merely toying with her and has no idea about Gordon or her job, but then _Jesus_, she can't breathe and suddenly the knife is too close for comfort and _oh my god…_

"—Ley." She gasps out, trying to pull a hand up to grapple at the arm at her throat. He glances down at the pathetic attempt, then stares back up at her and relaxes some of the tension.

"Who?" Interloper sounds mildly interested.

Hailey tries to swallow. The spit gets stuck halfway down.

"A-a-iley." She chokes.

More slack. More air coming through. The knife reluctantly backs away from her eye.

"Who?"

"Hailey." The name slips itself through Hailey's lips like a half-uttered curse, and she feels disgustingly lame. The Interloper releases full tension on her windpipe but rests the forearm there as a warning.

"Is there a last name?"

Training tells Hailey to clam up.

She does.

And instantly pays for it. The knife lungs back at her eye, and the forearm lays itself fully down on her only way of air, patiently pressing downwards.

Hailey starts seeing stars.

"Pike." She spits out. "The last name is Pike."

Interloper blinks leisurely, giving her a moment to contemplate how absolutely heartless the bastard looks before leaning down on her windpipe once again.

He doesn't buy it.

"Really?"

Completely ignoring the blade inches from her orbital cavity, instead focused on the reality that my god, she can't _breathe, _Hailey nods her head vehemently from side-to-side.

"Yes!" she croaks out, desperate.

Something happens in those eyes. She only has a nanosecond to see it, but disgust flashes through the Interloper's face and then she's back down on the floor, choking and gasping for air and gingerly massaging her windpipe. The Interloper has backed off again, returning to his corner in a flash of blue, and now watches her, arms crossed.

Hailey's gaze returns to the barbiturate stain on the carpet. No longer is she avoiding eye-contact to put up a tough front.

She simply doesn't want to have to have the Interloper staring her down again.

Briefly the question arises as to who this bastard is. Who this, this _monster _is and why—of all people—he's pursuing her.

And then, then in her oxygen-deprived state, Hailey remembers.

_Gordon Webb?_

The mind jumps quickly, trying to move in its confused and frightened state.

_Other killer? Other boss? Body guard? Man who has grudge against me? Man who has grudge against employer? Man who's simply psycho? _

Instinct interrupts the tirade.

_He's none of those things, dear. None of them._

…That quiet reality sends ice streaming through her veins.

_Jesus, she's dealing with a ghost…_

"Hailey," Interloper says, calm and controlled once again, "who do you work for?"

Training tries to reinforce itself (_avoid eye contact, don't talk, don't react)_, but Hailey won't allow it. She can't—god—she can't deal with that nightmare again. She is shaken far beyond her normal state to act cool. She is shaken, now, not stirred, and nothing can change the reality that she's frightened as hell.

"Hailey?"

Oh, no…the Interloper has crouched down again, though now the knife is dangling loosely in a hand. It's an open and very certain threat.

_Don't talk, don't see. Doesn't that make sense?_

"…Employer."

Interloper shakes his head. "That won't work, Hailey. It won't."

It is at this moment in time that Hailey realizes the importance of the name, the importance of an identity.

When you're faceless, attacks against you mean nothing. They're not personal, not meaning any harm towards you as a _human being—_most assuredly, they're simply there to agitate or frighten you slightly. Being anonymous is more of an upside than down.

But once you add the name into the equation, once you have on your lips someone's identity, the whole thing goes sideways. No longer is the assault towards you impersonal…it's very close to home. It's very real.

…It's an attack on you.

Now that the Interloper knows Hailey's name, he knows how to worm his goddamned head into her brain. Now he knows how to make her crack, make her tip-toe the line with Insanity.

Hailey knows the ropes enough to understand that now she has a very low chance of keeping secrets. She knows that life might very well be ending.

All because he knows her name.

"Who is it, Hailey?"

She doesn't know _what _compels her to keep fighting, but it does. Instead of spilling like she so badly wants to, Hailey simply shakes her head.

What surprises her is not _what _he does, but what he _doesn't _do. He _doesn't _attack her with the knife again, _doesn't_ choke her. Instead, the Interloper glances down at the knife in his hand, then looks back up at her and smiles gently.

…Jesus Christ, if the abuse she experienced seconds ago wasn't terrifying enough, this sure as hell _is. _

"You don't know who you work for, Hailey?"

Uh-oh. Realization hits like a brick wall.

…He doesn't give a shit about _who _she works for, does he?

It's something else. It's that Gor—

"Go ahead," Interloper continues. "You can shake your head. It's okay if you decide that you can bullshit me. I guess what I really want to know is _why _you're hunting Gordon Webb."

Without meaning to, Hailey blinks. The name unsettles her and instills recognition.

The bone-chilling smile on the Interloper's face grows wider.

"You recognize the name." He states simply. "Good."

…The world is turning far too fucking fast for Hailey to reconcile what's going on, because now she's choking again, pushed into a semi-seated position with the knife tenderly coaxing at the skin of her windpipe. The Interloper maintains his weight on her thrashing legs and arms calmly, staring unflinchingly into her frantic eyes before leaning forward towards her ear.

"If you want to live, you will tell me why you're hunting him," Interloper whispers gently. "If you don't tell me, in ten seconds your face will no longer resemble Hailey Pike. Do we understand each other?"

Hailey's mind snaps. She gives one frantic stare into the blue-eyed devil in front of her and realizes that there's nothing in those irises. Nothing that will stop this madman from killing her, and nothing that will stop her from becoming a monstrosity. The flicker of disgust she saw a moment ago, the flicker of confusion and fear at what was happening, is gone.

Hailey does what she never thought she'd do.

She confesses

* * *

**A/N: **Ladies and Gentlemen, meet the real Cain. Heartless, cold and creepy/bipolar bastard, isn't he?

I'm sorry if this chapter didn't entirely keep interest, as well as the fact that my drug facts might've been a little bit off; I researched earlier today for some cardiopulmonary arresting drugs and didn't exactly find what I wanted. Barbiturates are a family of drugs that have anesthesic properties, but have been known to cause death if overdosed with. They are also sometimes used in lethal executions. If anyone can get more specific with the drug--as to help me out--that would be great.

Questions, comments? Feel free to post 'em.


	12. Boardroom Gladiator

When one thinks of desk jockeys, a lot of thought deals primarily with underestimation. 

After all...They are fat, out-of-shape and cowardly, with no (real) spines to speak of. Life is a constant routine reminiscent of a hamster or some type of rodent, caged up in small cubicles and seeing through artificial, grimy florescent light day after day after day.

But what we fail to realize is that there is a fiercer, more intense side to the life of a desk jockey. Amid the paper shuffling, the finger pointing, stale (and cold) coffee and daily office soap operas, there are those grand, one-in-a-million gladiator battles.

Jockeys call them boardroom meetings. Brutal verbal smack-downs vicious enough to cause one's manhood to wither or–even worse–vanish entirely.

Boardroom meetings are brought upon the office spectrum by a variety of problems, ranging from issues within the company to outside danger. Today, though, the duel is raging between Douglas Corporations and a man who the jockeys have elected as their leader. He is smart, ruthless, efficient and—from a distance—unassuming.

He is Gordon Webb, and today desk jockeys have decided that he is the Gladiator.

Gordon Webb has taken to his position dutifully and with as much piss and vinegar as a truly angry man can muster.

…Because let's be frank: he is very, _very, _very angry.

He is furious.

"What wasn't clear about the deal, Dieter? What did I not say clearly enough to you?"

Dieter sighs dramatically, motioning with his head at the stiff white-suits that surround him before leaning forward on the table and splaying his hands out.

"Look, Gordon—"

"Mr. Webb," Gordon snaps, clenching his teeth.

"Sir," Dieter placates, trying to avoid Gordon's name completely and therefore strip him of his identity, "my employers aren't pleased with the fact that you are working with the ILW Company out of Iran."

Gordon blinks, feeling the pressure at the back of his head growing. "I don't understand what is there to be displeased about. They're a good organization, well-funded and hard-wor—"  
"They're also Iranian," Dieter says swiftly, once again cutting down Webb's words.

An awkward silence dumps itself on the boardroom table. From Dieter's side of the table, Douglas Corp. lawyers shift uneasily in their table. Gordon, alone and accompanied only by Martin Sidlak—his partner in arms—stares down Chad Dieter across the table and slowly blinks. He takes one deep breath, then exhales slowly.

"Please explain to me why the fact they're Iranian is pertinent."

More uncomfortable movement on Dieter's side of the court. Dieter swallows visibly.

"…as you know, relations with the country of Iran have been rather strained latel—"

"That means nothing in my business," Webb bites out, the words slipping barely under his teeth. "They are a good company and have been under my employment for six years." He leans forward and taps at the mahogany table for emphasis, "Now you understand me, Dieter. When we struck negotiations yesterday, I thought I had been very clear as to how the deal would go down. ILW stays."

Douglas Corporation's white collars stiffen at the sounds of an out-of-boardroom negotiation. How _dare _a deal be discussed without their ever-watchful eyes? It is sacrilege. Dieter, aware of the piercing looks he has now received, stiffens. The eyes flicker in warning.

"I don't recall that meet—"

"Bullshit." Gordon snaps, ignoring all the rules of professionalism. Rarely has he cursed or lost his temper in the Boardroom; it was through quiet civility that he has gained notoriety, with calm, well-placed and clever words.

Then again, this was something new. He felt a quiet rage looming at the back of his head that normally was nonexistent. Agreements between the Debrouillard Firm and their contracting companies almost always went smoothly. Throughout the world, the business was known as fair, just, and diplomatic in their actions. Eric Debrouillard had emphasized such a point when he first brought the company to light more than ten years ago, striking it rich in the oil-drenched area of southern Russia and the rim of Iran.

_"We don't make money from enemies, Webb. You understand that, don't you?" The thick Louisiana drawl crawls its way out of Eric Debrouillard's turkey neck slowly, each word emphasized carefully._

_Gordon nods sincerely, face serious. "Of course."_

_Debrouillard leans back in his chair, lips curled in a wry smile and then gives a bark of laughter. "Though...in the bullshit world of today, it's sure as hell difficult to be fair and be 'politically correct…'" the smile turns into a grin, "but I think the company can do it. I really do."_

_Gordon shrugs slightly, trying to keep himself from spewing what he knows will be _Well, we can't stay pure forever…_and instead nods once again. Debrouillard analyzes him thoughtfully before making a dismissive motion and standing up, reaching out to shake Webb's hand. _

_"It'll be good to have you on the team, Webb. The resume said good things, and I hope your work does as well."_

_Gordon bows his head respectfully. "I hope so as well, sir."_

_Debrouillard gives a thin smile before waving him off. Gordon is just at the door when a loud cough stops him. He turns cautiously to see his new employer back in his chair, arms crossed._

_"Mr. Webb, sir?" the man says, voice lazy. _

Oh, shit…

_"Yes, Mr. Debrouillard?"_

_Debrouillard smiles, revealing piranha-like fangs. "Don't bullshit with me, kiddo, because you won't win." At Gordon's quick blink of surprise, he continues. "I understand very damn well that we will be in a world full of temptation—but why I hired _you _was so that you kept this company straight. A good colleague of mine at Cornell said you'd be up to it." Debrouillard cocks his head thoughtfully, an eyebrow raised. "Would you agree?"_

_Gordon, wordless, only can nod. Debrouillard's already sinister smile widens. He shoos the then-twenty-seven year old out of his sight, laughing at the slam of the door that follows. _

A somewhat shocked gasp filters its way out from the Douglas Corporation. Gordon makes a quick sound of impatience and stands up, unwilling to negotiate further. From his side, Martin looks up and back down at the seething masses only ten feet away nervously.

Gordon straightens his suit, and clears his throat.

"The deal is final, gentlemen. ILW stays with Debrouillard, or else this arrangement is a no-go. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

He hates dramatic entrances, but knows very well that this is precisely the time and place for it. Quickly, trying to retain the walk and surge of righteous anger he felt leaving the flat this morning, Gordon strides to the door and opens it quickly, motioning Marty to follow. Sidlak gives him a wary, half-petrified look but obeys, shuffling his average frame out the door quickly before being followed by Webb.

The door slams. For a moment boss and partner-in-arms regard each other, and then Sidlak's off, motioning for Gordon to follow. As they get out of earshot of the door, Marty whirls around.

"Do you know what you're doing?!?" He hisses, clutching nervously at his clipboard of paperwork. "Do you have any ide—"

"You know just as well as I do that it would be what Eric would want," Gordon snaps back, face growing red. "ILW stays. Dieter might as well kiss my ass."

Marty shakes his head vehemently, clearly uneasy. He opens his mouth to speak, but as the two find themselves passing a group of paper-shufflers, he goes silent.

And then the group is gone. He waits until they turn the corner and Gordon punches the elevator before he explodes.

"Gordon, times change," Marty jerks slightly as his clipboard slips under his grasp, "and we're not the company that originally started. We've become—"

"A corporate whore?" Webb keeps his face deadpan.

"Yes—I mean—" he shakes his head, "--NO!" Sidlak shoves his glasses up his nose, trying to keep them from falling. "Look…"

Gordon shifts his head, glancing in irritation at the seemingly sluggish elevator, then shoots a look at his watch. He turns to roll his eyes at Marty—whose lecture he now had blocked out—and then pivots on a heel. Marty gives a disgruntled sputter.

"Where are you going?"

"Stairs," he calls over his shoulder, moving towards the door. "You comin'?"

Marty hates stairs with a passion—but right now he's caught in the heat of the moment and he knows very damn well that Gordon is trying to escape him.

Naturally, Marty is now inclined to give chase, and as fast as his clumsy and nerdy body can go, he pursues.

Gordon's halfway up the flight, moving towards the 52nd floor and thus his office. Marty continues to yell at him from his position a flight below.

"Don't try to escape this, Gordon!" His voice echoes hollowly. "This was a really important deal, and if we screw up—"

"We won't," Gordon says, now at the door and peering down at his comrade. "Now are you coming?"


	13. Mannequin Prop Up

More than ten floors down, the elevator that Gordon Webb had been waiting for so impatiently makes its first real stop, sliding to a halt with a gentle beep. 

The beep finds itself overshadowed by the lower growl of machinery and heaters, and instead of emanating clearly, is quickly swallowed by the slick, dark gray concrete floors.

We are in the basement.

In the boiler room.

Another five seconds pass by before the doors slip open with a quite rolling noise. A head quickly pulls itself out, suspended between the elevator and the basement, before moving back in.

Ten seconds this time. The doors try to close, eager to depart to a call many, many floors above, and are kicked backwards swiftly, bouncing backwards to their original position. A low grunt slips out from inside the elevator, and the head that had appeared seconds ago now comes complete with a torso, legs, and straining arms, quickly and as quietly as possible trying to drag out what appears from a distance to be a dummy of some sort.

But the mannequin retains too human of features—and weight—to be fake. Besides this, it would be absurd in the first place for a man to bring a dummy down into the boiler room for kicks.

That would be very absurd.

…And even more strange.

No, this mannequin is real, with blood seeping faintly out of a nostril and a faint bluish mark on the throat. The eyes are closed and the head sagging into the collarbone. No dummy could retain such human an appearance, nor give the look of being unconscious. This is, indeed, a real human being and—apparent from the difficultly to slide the body out of the elevator, a shoe-heel snagging on the elevator doors—somewhat heavy.

…Or maybe just heavier than usual.

Guilt and panic tend to somewhat dull the senses, dull strength. This might not be any different.

The man finally wins the battle with the heel, nudging it to the side with a foot before pulling the woman towards a not-so-distant wall. As her arm limply slides against the vertex of the wall and floor, he stops, standing up abruptly and dropping the body with a quiet _thud. _

An outside observer knows an action like this signals the worst of human emotions—panic. It has finally injected itself into this man's veins and is now quickly doing what is does best: spreading throughout the bloodstream ideas of doubt, disgust and—the most terrible of all—fear.

This man is now confused, disoriented as to where he is and at an impasse to do further.

The mind is in deadlock.

…But not for long. He shakes his head with an audible exhalation, and then turns back to the unconscious figure. The motions aren't as clumsy, now. With a seemingly studied ease his pivots the body so that the woman's back is propped up against the wall, and then takes a step backwards.

A moment's pause.

The man reaches quickly into his pocket, then stops.

No written warning will be needed for this woman—what is her name?—Hailey. Unlike him, her memory will regain itself rapidly. She will know why she is in a basement, purse-less, one-shoe-less and weaponless. She will know why a bruise is at her neck and her nose is slightly bloodied. It will take her more than five disoriented seconds, yes, but she will know very quickly why she is down here.

Hopefully, she'll take heed of his verbal warning and vanish.

…Hopefully.

Jason regards the assassin in front of him momentarily before his head whips to the side, noting with faint alarm that his only mode of transportation is closing its doors, preparing to move upwards. In an unnecessary panic, he throws himself at the doors, throwing a hand towards the closing panels. They snap open once again—seemingly irritated—and it is Bourne realizes that he might not want the elevator.

…Main floor cops are probably standing by, waiting for his elevator to stupidly float back to the lobby of the building. Though New Yorkers generally live by the hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil doctrine, they do—periodically—ring to New York's finest when they suspect that something is terribly wrong or amiss in their domicile. Out on the street, everything is fair game, but once you bring a mugging, rape, assault or murder into an office space, everything quickly becomes personal.

Jason reconsiders this.

…and then swiftly eases his forearm away from blocking the panels, allowing them to slip shut with a quiet hiss. He regards the bleary red light of the elevator signaling its departure upwards, and then glances away.

He will find some stairs to slip out of here with.

But not the elevator. Bourne cannot afford to be thrown off this early in chase. The Chameleon and Cain would disprove.

Jason takes a step around the unconscious woman and walks silently down the hallway, pivoting his head in both directions before breaking off to the right.

The Chameleon vanishes behind a corner.

…And then Jason Bourne is no more.


	14. Shakey Legs

Headaches have to be the epitome of evil, the harbingers of doom. With the searing, throbbing pain that gnaws contently at the back of the skull, the vicious cottonmouth feeling and the nausea, there is not a sickness in the world that Hailey hates more right now than that of the migraine. 

Interestingly, it's not confusion that first blinks its way into her headache-broken senses as to why Hailey is sprawled on a cold cement floor; it is pain, and it is a pain that she hates so much she momentarily doesn't give a shit as to _where _she is—rather, the question is how the hell to get rid of the pain in her head.

But…ah…the animal-like need to rid oneself of pain is quick to become overshadowed by human perception of reality. Hailey forces her eyes—painful, at least weighing sixty pounds—to crawl their way open, climbing up the corneas until they finally come to perch at a half-open, lidded position, and then tries to understand where she is.

Again, the first thing that drops into her skull is the pain that she's feeling. Naturally, we've already covered the fact her head has imploded in a blast greater than Hiroshima, but now Hailey is dully realizing that her throat—windpipe?—feels scratchy. Bruised.

Unconsciously, a hand whips up to Hailey's neck. She applies slight pressure on the skin, and then at the dull pain that ensues, jerks backwards.

…And then _everything _comes back.

There's that one-word question, delivered with the intensity of frostbite.

_"Who?"_

"Pike," she mutters unconsciously. "Hailey Pike."

_"Really?"_

A shudder trails up her spine, and Hailey feels the need to run, to get out. She _has_ to get away from that voice.

Hailey tries to curl her legs up from under her and push upwards--thus enabling her to pull into a standing position--when her right calf bites down in a cramp. Gasping in surprise, Hailey slips, ass slamming back down on the floor.

The headache screams rage at this seemingly un-provoked impact, and in a quick burst of pain, Hailey brings the heels of her hands to her eyes and rocks quietly on the floor, cursing under her breath.

This is almost worse than the low she received shortly after over-loading on coke. She stuck to marijuana after that—it was definitely mellower--and though the low hurt like hell, it was _nothing_ compared to the drop after crack.

Hell, that drop was chicken-shit compared to her headache at the present time.

_Get up. Quit acting like a bitch and get up. _

Hailey slowly recognizes that her colder side has decided to grip the steering wheel. Her body pushes itself up from her fetal position and within several painful seconds Hailey stands groggily, back bent in an awkward 'c' and hands unsteadily held outwards towards the wall.

Another five seconds go by. Hailey forces her eyes to focus and realizes with an angry jolt that her purse and its contents are no longer with her. Unceremoniously, the Interloper eloped with her bag, and in the process completely stripped Hailey of her id, her gun, her car keys, and her wallet, leaving the woman with nothing.

Blind panic flickers briefly before Hailey remembers that she miraculously had anticipated such a move—and as such had a small locker in her hotel room that contained duplicates of all her information.

The only issue before that, then, would be hot-wiring her rental car, and picking the lock of her room…which hopefully wouldn't be too much of a problem. After all—Hailey is an assassin. She learned the basic breaking-and-entering procedures long before they became truly necessary in her life, and easily can fall back on them be it the situation calls for it.

But now the question arises: does she really want to go back to the calling situations—or, rather—the problem at hand? Does Hailey really want to deal with the Interloper and his knife again?

A shudder.

No. She doesn't want to have to feel that terror again. It was animalistic in its intensity and chilled her to the bone. Hailey doesn't want to relive that fear again, and she knows very well that if she continues to pursue Gordon Webb, she'll have the Interloper waiting around the corner to stay true to his word of eliminating her.

That was, after-all, what he had told her before the world went black.

_"I'll be very frank with you, Ms. Pike." The Interloper lazily plays with the blade in his hand, still not more than a foot away from her eyes, "If I even get a mere idea that you are following Gordon Webb, you will not live to see a New York sunrise the next morning." His eyes level at hers, unblinking. "Do I make myself clear?"_

_Hailey nods quickly, mouth pursed shut in fear._

_The Interloper now blinks. "Good."_

_…and then a hand is rushing at the side of her head. Hailey barely has time to comprehend that the world is going dark before she hears, "I'm glad we understand each other."_

Hailey shakes her head, trying to shake off the not-so-distant demons of not-too-long ago and concentrate on what she has to do.

She has to get out of here.

She has to quickly get to her hotel room, retrieve her tools, call her employer and finish the job.

…waitaminute…what?

_You don't want to go back to that monster in the elevator, Hailey. Just let it go._

Hailey shakes her head, and without thinking begins to talk aloud. "There's $8,000 on the table," she says, bring a hand to cling to her hair, "and I can't let that go." The last part of her words come out whispered--pained. "I can't."

_Are you sure?_

Moment's pause. "…no."

_But you must be. If you want that $8,000, you must be very clear about where you stand. Are you?_

Second time around, now. Hailey stares blankly at the cement floor below her before nodding her head rapidly, feeling the quietly-retreating headache yelp in protest at the movement.

"Yes."

Cold-Hailey smiles her approval. _Let's get going, then. _

Mechanically, Hailey turns towards the elevator and slowly thumbs the "up" button, watching in boredom as the circle turns red.

Two minutes tick by. Hailey quickly makes up a plan as to what she will do when she reaches the lobby and shifts awkwardly onto her right foot.

Three minutes. A small ping echoes through the noisy, grumbling boiler-room platform before the elevator doors at Hailey's left open. She pivots her head before her body, moving in differently timed movements, and steps in. Eyes flicker downwards and a hand pokes at the star button. A jerk, a groan, and then the elevator's off, shifting itself upward.

New York's finest greet Hailey as she puts a foot outside the elevator shaft. Three of them, all seemingly entranced in questioning witnesses at the scene. One of the women being interrogated, face powdered to an almost sickly pallor, moves her eyes over to Hailey's form in boredom before they widen. She points, and says something that dimly Hailey can't hear.

One of the officers turns. Suspicious eyes regard her quickly and then note the blood dried under one nostril and the rapidly-visible blue mark on Hailey's windpipe.

Like the pale woman, it takes only a second for the cop to realize that he's dealing with Elevator Lady. He motions towards his nearby comrade—who, in the midst of writing out a report, takes two calls before he realizes he's being called—and then, frustrated, takes matters into his own hands. An apology is given towards the woman as the officer moves towards Hailey, though slowly, as if she is an injured animal.

"Ma'am?" he asks. "Ma'am, are you okay?"

Hailey moves forward clumsily, inwardly telling herself that _shit, she doesn't want deal with cops NOW, _and that she has to somehow find a way to get out of this and avoid being dragged to the nearest station.

Unfortunately, though, Hailey's legs—and her mind, for that matter—aren't moving fast enough to hatch a nanosecond escape plan. They only have time to stagger forward and collapse, barely giving the cop an instant to grab at her falling form and get her in a somewhat upright position. Looking mildly flustered now, the cop motions to his earlier partner who had been busy.

"I need help!" he says, voice barely making itself heard over the murmurs of rubber-neckers and the low conversation of passing businessmen. The early-partner rushes over, dropping his notepad on the ground and going to help his comrade stand Hailey up. Hailey weakly tries to bat away one of the cop's hands but stops as she realizes that wow, she really cannot stand on her own.

Cold-Hailey snorts disapproval. _Are you actually in SHOCK? _

Hailey shakes her head. _No…I can't be. _

The legs give out again. A gasp is heard from Pale-Woman, and she brings a perfectly manicured hand to her mouth in shock. Hailey is surprised to find that suddenly everything's…out of focus.

Only when she no longer can see and feels as if she's bathed in a black blanket does Hailey realize she's fainted.

Damn.

* * *

The voice is low, quiet and gruff to Hailey, and yet it sounds strangely familiar. 

"Hailey…I need you to wake up."

Behind closed lids, the eyes flicker, now sure of recognition. The voice notices the movement and speaks once again.

"C'mon, Hailey…you need to get up."

It takes Hailey a moment to focus. The surroundings blur and twist, dancing in the dim light of what she can only assume is the interior of a car, and then suddenly everything sharpens. Hailey twists her neck to the side and then notices the face not too far away from her own. She blinks.

"Dan?"

The younger sibling smiles awkwardly, bringing a hand up to fidget with his badge.

"Hey, Hail."

"What—" Hailey pushes her body up from the car seat to squint at the early-afternoon sun glaring down at her. Disoriented, she whips her head back to Dan, mouth open in a query.

"You fainted," he says, answering the unasked question. "Miskimon barely caught you before you decided to kiss tile floor."

Hailey glances behind her and tries to adjust the seat back to its upright position, then stops, turning to stare at Dan.

"I didn't know that this was your precinct."

Dan's lower eyelid jumps. "I got transferred," he says succinctly. At Hailey's raised eyebrow, he continues. "The boss thought it might be more—" the hands move, searching for a word, "—suitable for me."

Hailey digests the words carefully, then nods once to show her reluctant acceptance of Dan's excuse. In reply, Dan runs a hand nervously through his hair—or what is left of the blond hair, now shaved to a buzz cut—and coughs.

The two regard each other uncomfortably. Hailey turns her eyes away from her brother to once again take stock of where she is, and then turns back, puzzlement written on her face.

"Why am I in your squad ca—"

"I had a feeling, Hailey, that whatever you were involved in you probably didn't want many cops getting in on." Dan raises a blond eyebrow in a look almost exactly like that of his sister. "Is that a fair estimation?"

Uneasily, Hailey shifts in the leather seat. "Yeah," she says after a moment's pause. "It is."

Dan grunts.

"Do I want to ask what happened?"

Hailey—whose eyes had been diverted towards the sidewalk—jerks her head back to her brother abruptly, gaze suddenly hostile.

"You already know, Dan. Surely reports from eye-witnesses are enough."

Dan shrugs lazily, apparently unfazed by the hostility presented. "Sure they are, but you can only go so far with reports of a dock-worker storming in, snatching a woman and throwing her into an elevator before the trail dead-ends." He cocks his head, "Which is why we come to you."

Hailey openly bridles, and discreetly moves a hand towards the door latch. "Dan," she says, "If you want to question me, you know very well that we should be in a room."

"Once again, Hailey: do you _really _want to have some cops asking you what happened? Or would you prefer that I keep this between us?"

At her silence, Dan continues, though his voice softens in tone. "Some techs found a peculiar substance on the carpet in that elevator, as well as a shattered hypodermic. We originally thought heroin, but a second look proved me wrong."

More silence. Dan opens his mouth, closes it, and then it opens it again.

"Why do you have barbiturate, Hailey?"

She quietly exhales. "You know why, Dan."

Dan's gaze--which had been fixed firmly on Hailey--turns away, focusing on the line of taxis that have piled up not too far away. As multiple honks make themselves heard, and the screech of brakes emits from the nearby stop-sign, he clears his throat.

"I've kept quiet and saved your ass on multiple occasions, Hailey." He rests one hand on the steering wheel, and uses the other to pinch the bridge of his crooked nose. "I've accepted what you do for a living without bitching too often, and have even resorted to planting as to make sure you don't get snared…but this?" glaring, gray eyes fuming and jaw muscles jumping, he continues, "this is absolutely—"

"Unacceptable?" At Dan's angry look, Hailey smiles icily. "Trust me, it occurred to you just as much as it did me. I made a mistake."

"No," he spits, releasing his hand from the steering wheel and tapping it for emphasis. "You fucked up. Anyone can make mistakes. It takes a real genius to fuck up."

"Yeah?" Hailey's poise vanishes, and within seconds she has devolved into the snarling Brooklyn brat whose mouth was too big for her. "Well what the _fuck_—" a bitter laugh "--do you expect me do to, eh?" She leans forward.

"I got fucking ambushed, Dan." Hailey's eyes, serious now, stare levelly at her brother. "This bastard came out of nowhere like a goddamn bat out of hell and cornered me in that elevator. There was _nothing _I could've done to stop it."

He blinks. "Nothing?"

Hailey inwardly winces, but keeps herself cool. "Nothing. He was too strong and too damn smart for me to do anything else."

Dan considers this quietly, hand back on the steering wheel and eyes flickering over his sister carefully. There's a pause, followed shortly by an audible exhalation. Dan reaches for the ignition and quickly jerks on the keys, causing the Crown Victoria to growl throatily to life. Leaning back, he considers the main console for a moment before returning to the steering wheel and pulling the car out of park.

"I take it then," Dan says, twisting his head around so he can see behind him and pull out of the space, "that you don't have any money?"

"Yeah," Hailey says. "He took everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

The Crown Vic jerks forward and narrowly avoids being bulldozed by a taxi. The driver considers honking, but then notices the paint-job and the lights and backs off.

Dan, focusing back on the main conversation, makes a small sound of approval.

"Sounds like you were dealing with a professional, Hailey."

She shoots him an irritated look. "I was."

The car rolls to a halt at the stoplight. Hailey's brother speaks again, shooting her a quick look before turning back to the road.

"How bad was the damage?"

Hailey swallows, mouth abruptly dry.

"He choked me a couple of times."

Dan's jaw clenches. "Hand or forearm?"

"Forearm." She says, surprised. "How'd you guess?"

Dan shrugs. "No finger bruises, and no garrote marks. It's just a wide stretch of blue."

Silence. Hailey unconsciously reaches up at her windpipe and swallows again.

A cough.

"Where am I taking you?"

She stops, reconsidering. "I parked near Washington Square, but you can drop me off at Vaverly."

Dan snorts. "I'll just take you to Washington," he says, flicking on the turn signal. Hailey, irritated, turns to glare at him.

In response, Dan blinks slowly. "There's no reason to complicate things, Hailey," he says. "If you parked near Washington, I'll just drop you off there and be on my way." Dan raises his eyebrows. "Or would you prefer walking? I mean, since you don't have an MTA card or anything…"

Hailey purses her lips—to which her younger brother smiles triumphantly—but says nothing, instead crossing her arms and slouching back in the seat.

A few blocks later, Dan clears his throat.

"You have some superficial cuts under your eyes, and on your neck." He says, observing. "Knife?"

Hailey closes her eyes and nods.

Dan makes a quiet hurrumph noise. "How close did he get to cutting?"

She thinks back. "Pretty close. He didn't approve of me clamming up."

He sniffs. "Most people don't."

Outside noises fill the cabin. Hailey opens her window, welcoming the humid gust of air that proceeds to smother her face and peering thoughtfully at the tourists huddled around the street corner.

The car stops again. Hailey looks out and--with some surprise—notes that that they're already at Washington, and that the car is jammed precariously into a barely legal position, close to cradling the curb.

"Hailey—" Dan starts.

She ignores him.

"Hailey—"

Hailey moves her head slightly, allowing for a bare peripheral glance of her brother. He pauses a moment before continuing.

"I'd tell you I'm sorry, but I don't think that's what you want."

She dips her head slightly, acknowledging.

"In that case, then, good luck."

Hailey turns fully towards her brother.

"Thank you," she says.

Dan smiles awkwardly. "Yeah."

They stare at each other for a second, before Hailey turns towards the door and pushes on the lever, shoving the door open. She has both feet out of the cab and is standing up when Dan calls her again.

"Hailey?"

Hailey ducks down, staring down into the cabin with raised eyebrows.

"Yeah?"

"I won't be covering or saving your ass if I see you again," he says seriously. "You better finish this and leave, for both our sakes."

Hailey nods seriously. "I will."

"Good."

The door slams. Dan spins the wheel and signals out for an entrance. The car behind him stops, and slowly the Crown Victoria maneuvers its way back into main stream traffic. Hailey watches from her position on the curb and then waves.

A honk is his reply.

* * *

**A/N: **Many thanks to **PretendFan**, who has been faithfully, each and every chapter, been my cheer squad, and to **Darlian, AncientEgyptianDreams--**your critique was highly appreciated--and **G.A. Clive**. I'm so glad you enjoyed the story and that it sent chills down your spine. That was definetely the main idea. 

Have a happy New Year, and I hope that for all of you the holiday season was enjoyable. :)

* * *


	15. Purse Oddity

The room he's renting is absolutely filthy, but as he snatches his backpack from the bed and rummages through for his notepad, Jason realizes that he could care less.

There are more important things that have to be dealt with—namely, Gordon Webb and associates—and if anything, a disgusting room that smells like piss and marijuana is the least of his worries. He has dealt with such things before and besides…it's cheap.

Cheap is good. Discreet, anonymous…no one will ask him questions and he won't answer any. To both sides of the spectrum, it's a win-win situation.

_What would Marie think? _

Jason pauses, hand clutching at the finally-found notepad in a momentary daze, and then slowly rummages through with his left hand for a pen.

_Marie would deal with it,_ he decides, batting away a crumpled t-shirt at the bottom of the bag. _She wouldn't like it, but she'd quietly suffer through it. _

Cain snidely enters the conversation. _Oh, so she's spineless? _

Bourne outwardly frowns, at last finding a black pen and flicking the cap off irritably. _No. That's just how Marie was; if it was necessary, she'd deal with it. _

Cain laughs, but says nothing, instead vanishing entirely.

Jason waits one more moment—wanting to make sure that Cain is gone—before he quietly tells himself he misses her.

There's no reply from the other line.

Bourne refocuses. He throws the backpack pack on the bed and moves towards the end of the mattress, sitting down on the hideous shag carpet and resting his back against the footboard. The notepad rests idly in his hand, staring up with a blank—though lined—yellow face and quietly asking him what he wants written down.

Jason moves the pen downwards before stopping, the tip just barely resting on the paper.

What _does _he want down?

…the Pike woman told him only what she had deemed relevant at the panicked moment at hand. Mind frantic, barely thinking and barely comprehending, she had not been in any condition to give him clear and truly viable information.

But she _did _give him the bare minimum.

Jason can live with that. He himself tends to be a minimalist, and—in the being of such a person—he can easily survive with the insufficient information. He doesn't prefer it, but Jason can live with it. He can adapt to the circumstances and search for what he truly needs. It'll just take more time.

…time that Bourne doesn't know if he has. Though he is fairly certain that the female won't be back any time soon, if his brother is as big of a threat as it was being projected, there is no doubt in Jason's mind that another assassin will be sent.

That's what worries him the most; the Pike woman was an average killer, an obviously young and inexperienced gun, and somewhat new to the profession. Whoever hired Pike will be back with a better and more dangerous adversary, one that—unlike last time—Jason might not be able to detect as soon. As it was, he barely caught the woman. If someone older was sent, the chances of him being able to recognize the threat before something happened might be too late. Jason's smart, but he's not God. There's always that probability of failure. It's small, yes, but there nonetheless. If a veteran is sent, Jason doesn't know if he'll catch him in time.

That worries him.

_So what do you want to write down, though?  
_The basics. Jason needs information he can bounce to others, information that he can search for on the—he's still getting the hang of it—internet, and information he understands.

The pen is slowly bleeding its black blood into the paper, causing the fiber to blot messily. Jason jerks up the pen and then comes back down, skirting the last stain he left and instead trying to get down all the information that comes to him now.

_ILW, _he writes, the full meaning of the acronym beyond him. He guess at the last part, using past knowledge to at least assume the origin of the first letter. _Iran(?)Iranian(?) _

More words begin to pour onto the paper, some appearing more rapidly than others.

_Douglas__ Corporations. _

_ Debroulliard—_he knows he spelled the name wrong, and the more anal part of his personality demands that at least a reminder to spell-check be done (a circle with SP written in the middle appears)—_Firm. _

_ Oil(?)_ Yet another question mark.

Jason blinks, trying to remember more.

The woman finally got to the point where she told him her employer. It began with an L—

_Lansing_Jason frowns, then scribbles as a side note: _(is there a first name?) _

The pen comes down again, but then stops. Frustrated, Jason moves his eyes away from the paper and instead focuses on the hideous maroon carpet under him, trying to use the surface as a way to bounce his brain back.

Nothing comes.

Rage simmers. Jason throws down the pen and the notepad and abruptly rises to his feet, pacing irritably back and forth. He glances around the room, looking for _anything _that could be of use to him, then remembers.

_Her purse. _

He nearly trips around the bed trying to get to the backpack and—scrabbling through it—finally comes up with the bag. Jason places it not-so-neatly on the itchy comforter of the bed and carefully beings to rummage through, searching for anything that might be of use to him.

Mascara?

No.

_When Lovers Part_?

Definitely not.

Jason weeds through the makeup, gently moves the gun—a beautiful Colt, the silencer not too far away—to the outside of the bag, and slips his fingers through various pockets in the purse. A more male part of him frowns in confusion and plain disbelief at the complexity of the bag and its many pouches and slots—Jesus Christ, could there BE any more fucking pockets?—before he brushes a folded slip of paper.

Jason freezes, then moves his wrist backwards and snatches at the slip. Triumphantly pulling it up, he carefully opens the paper and skims the text thoughtfully.

_Mark Andierti. _

_ Rachel Clemens. _

_ Sergei Basayev. _

Within seconds the names find themselves written on paper. Circled carefully, with arrows pointing to the big block of text, Jason jots down a note to himself.

_Various hits(?) _

He returns to the purse—this time armed with his notepad and pen—and thoroughly re-examines the bag, coming across one and two more slips of paper before all that he can find are half-torn receipts and Tic-Tacs that managed to escape their container. Jason puts the scraps to the side and makes sure that he can find nothing more in the purse before he returns to them, opening each slowly and glancing through methodically.

The names—words—don't mean much to Bourne, but instinct and training demand he write them down anyway…just in case.

Afterwards, Jason returns to the foot of the bed and sits down, resting his arms on his knees and staring pensively at the words scribbled down on the notepad. The mind goes blissfully blank for a moment while he looks down at the paper, and then Jason realizes with a jolt that it's going to be extremely difficult to get the information he's looking for within two days via the internet and the phonebook.

_So then who— _

The name snaps back to Jason like a physical slap, and he inwardly scolds himself for not thinking of it in the first place.

The only person—the only organization—that he knows who could possibly come up with the information he needs in it the time that it's needed is Landy.

Or, rather, the CIA.

Jason considers this for a moment, then takes a deep breath and stands up, throwing the notepad towards the gaping mouth of his backpack and flicking the pen as an afterthought.

The notepad flaps in, but the pen misses entirely.

He ignores the miss and instead goes to the other side of the bed, staring at the comforter for a second before moving himself into a laying position over the covers.

So be it. Tomorrow, bright and early, he'd be calling Pamela Landy and asking for a favor. Considering all the shit he had gone through, such a request would raise no objections.

…hopefully.


	16. No Bloodshed Required

Tom hands her the coffee wordlessly, then sits down at the other side of the desk. She gives him a nod of thanks before turning away and taking a sip out of the cup. 

The two sit in somewhat uneasy silence before Cronin coughs.

"What do we have?"

Pamela glances up to see her partner leaning forward, eyebrows raised. Pausing, lips pursed, she carefully places the coffee to the side of the table.

"Teddy called out of Berlin." She says simply.

Tom shifts. "And?"

"He told me that they were having some problems." Pam reaches down into one of the desk drawers and comes out with a manila folder. Tom moves to take it as she stretches across the table and leans backward—opening the folder—as Pam continues. "Specifically," she says, "KGB."

Cronin freezes--eyes turning from mild curiosity to alarmed—and moves the folder away from his lap, throwing it on the floor. "That bad?"

She nods tensely. "Yeah."

"What do we have?"

"Teddy's not sure yet," Pam says, picking up a piece of paper lying on her desk and handing it to Tom. Unlike the folder, he forces himself to glance through it before throwing it on the floor. "He said that someone came to them last night, told them there was a leak."

"To or from the KGB?" Cronin's gaze stays on the paper as he asks.

She shrugs. "We have a faint idea that it was to KGB—not the other way around."

There's a subdued beat before Tom taps the sheet, glancing up with a raised eyebrow. "Teddy mentions Sergei Alamonov. I thought we had him under our wing for a _long _time."

Pamela nods, acknowledging. "We did."

"But?"

"KGB thinks he's involved with Shamil Basayev."

He freezes. "The Moscow Theatre Shamil?"

Pam's brow furrows—a sign of disgust and frustration. "The same."

"But…Basayev has been dead for months. They killed him in that campaign not too long ago."

She smiles wryly. "I know that, and you know that." Pam pauses, and the smile vanishes. "But the KGB wants Alamonov."

Tom places the sheet back on Pam's desk. "Reasons besides involvement?"

Another shrug. "Who knows? Oil, black-market deals. They've been trying to find and pin him for the past nine months, but since we've had him, no one knew he even existed."

Tom blinks. "Until now?"

"Until now," Pam says, frowning. She pauses a moment before shoving out her chair and standing, bringing a hand irritably to her hairline.

"I have to tell you, Tom," she says, glancing over. "I'm really getting sick of this turf bullshit. He's ours. We had him first."

Cronin moves in the chair, leaning back and knitting his fingers together. "Can we make a deal?"

A quick bark of laughter from Landy. She pulls her hand away from her hair and motions to the desk. "You know very well that the KGB doesn't exactly do 'deals'. They're about as tight-assed as we are. We make a deal, we lose something valuable—like our balls-- in the process."

Tom grunts in agreement.

The room becomes quiet. Pam walks over to her window and shifts aside one of the curtains. Tom waits a moment before speaking.

"So now what?"

She stares out at the street below a moment longer.

"I don't know," Pam says, turning back. "We need to either deny Alamonov's existence entirely or force them to make a deal." With a loud thump, she sits back down in her chair, resting her forearms on the desk. A sigh ensues before Pam continues.

"I have a feeling we need to keep him." She says, looking at Tom. "The KGB isn't normally interested in our assets unless their asses might get charred."

"He knows something?" Cronin asks.

"Like all defector-types," she says, spinning the chair slightly to glance out the window again, "yes. The only difference here is that—to our knowledge, at least—Alamonov never was _in _the KGB. Hell…in the nine months we had him, Russian intelligence didn't come up nearly as often as interaction with Iran."

"Which is not our arena." He states simply.

"No."

Tom leans down and picks up the folder.

"What do you want us to do?"

Pam purses her lips again, and squints—thinking.

"I'll call Teddy in thirty minutes and ask him if we can establish communication lines. I need to know who's working the KGB sector in Berlin, and if we can somewhat get on even ground." She motions to the manila, "You can read through that for me and try to pick up anything that I might've missed." As the small tic in Tom's eyelid jumps, Pam pauses and smiles awkwardly.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier. I heard that Tracy had a little boy yesterday—" Tom smiles, "--and didn't want to get in the way if I didn't have to."

The smile stays on for five seconds, then slowly slides off. Tom nods seriously, then pushes himself out of the chair, taking the manila folder with him.

"Do you want this by tomorrow morning?"

Pam closes her eyes and nods. "Yes, please."

Tom dips his head in acknowledgement before he moves to the door. Opening it, he's halfway through the frame before Pam stops him.

"Thanks for the coffee," she says.

"I thought you might need it," he says, then closes the door. Pam stares at the entryway a moment longer before turning back to the papers on her desk. Irritably, she flicks one aside and plants her elbows over the other two, cradling her head in her hands.

Naturally, she's accepted the fact that stress IS her life, and that there will never be a day where she truly gets rest. She has also accepted the fact that now--with anxiety making up a good deal of her existence--she'll never have the time to really feel relaxed and completely at ease.

Perversely, though, she knows she enjoys the stress. It's her challenge, her way to prove to her perfectionist mother and OCD father that she can take pressure long after they would have cracked. Her way to prove that women _can_ make it in the CIA.

But let's be truthful: this doesn't make the reality that every day brings a new pile of shit any easier.

_It's better to accept it than hate it. The more you hate it, the more painful your life will become. _

Pam feels the edge the coffee gave her slightly slacking off when her cell phone rings. At first, she ignores the tiny-sounding ringer, but after a moment of weariness and mild apprehension, she finally removes her head from her hands and reaches for her cell, cradled right under her computer screen.

Third ring. Pam glances at the number reading on the caller id, then frowns when she doesn't recognize it.

It's the middle of the fourth ring before she finally flips up the phone and brings it to her ear.

Cue the generic greeting.

"Pamela Landy."

There's a pause.

"It's not like you to answer your phone on the fourth ring," the voice observes simply.

Pam freezes.

"Bourne?"

"I have a favor to ask of you," he replies, without skipping a beat. Pam has to force herself not to try to glance out the window and instead focuses on the email lying in front of her.

"Why?" she asks, regaining her voice.

The beat this time can be no longer than a second, but for Pam it is enough to recognize that her old pseudo-foe is slightly distracted.

"Because you have all the files," Bourne finally answers. Pam stiffens--knowing that the truth of the statement is uncannily correct—and searches for a distraction.

"Isn't the Internet enough?"

Longer pause. "Not in this situation, no. I need information fast."

"Google can't provide that for you?" She has to bite her tongue to rein back on the sarcasm, but can already tell from the sound of a phone shifting on his side of the line that the barb didn't go unnoticed.

"No." he says frankly. "It can't."

Awkward silence ensues. It is Bourne that starts the conversation up again.

"I believe that you owe me, Pam." He says bluntly. "This is a small favor, and no bloodshed is required."

Pam thinks fast. "Names?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

Beat. "Five. And one is a company."

She furrows her brow, feeling a multitude of questions swarm upon her. Bourne, sensing apprehension, offers a vague reason for his request.

"Coincidences bother me, Pam—especially in New York."

The reason is somewhat comforting. Pamela blinks before she speaks.

"Is that all this is, then? Looking into coincidences?"

"To one extent," he says, "yes."

"To another?"

Long pause. "No."

Pamela Landy is a woman of her word, and a woman of loyalty. She does not forget when someone saves her ass or protects those of her companions, and does not forget when someone provides her the information needed to wrap up an operation.

Bourne filled in two of these requirements for a favor. To a greater degree, she does indeed owe him.

So be it.

Pam scoots her chair backwards and reaches into her junk drawer, coming out with a yellow Post-It and a black pen. She moves herself back to her original position and shoves the phone between her shoulder and ear.

"What are they?" Pam finally asks.

The short, clipped way he reads off the names tells her that he's relieved she's taking the requests.

…if only she could feel the same way.

Pamela doesn't like spontaneity—or being surprised on her own turf. She doesn't like having conversations with people she can't see and she _especially _doesn't like when the hairs on the nape of her neck prickle in apprehension.

Pam has a bad feeling about these names. As she writes them down, quickly trying to understand what some mean and others don't, the uneasiness only becomes greater.

"…and Sergei Alamonov."

Pam freezes.

Experience demands that because she recognizes this name, for her sake she simply blinks; the circumstances of the situation, however, and the very reality that only moments ago she was talking with Tom about the very same man, make Landy do something else completely.

She drops the pen. It is on accident, of course, and almost a split-second reaction to a name she knows, but Pamela drops her pen.

It is quickly picked up as fast as it is dropped, but the painful pause on the other side of the line makes Pam know instantly that Bourne realizes that something is attached to the name Sergei Alamonov.

However observant he may be, however, he keeps quiet. A more intelligent part of him must recognize that she is not in the mood to be spooked again, and that he is in no position to play games.

So Bourne continues as if nothing happened.

"I need this information by 2:10 this afternoon." He says. "Is that possible?"

Pamela's mind races as she analyzes the names in front of her, then glances down at her wristwatch.

8:15.

…yeah. That could be enough time.

"It should be," she replies after a moment. "Hoping that none of the names you've just given me need clearance"—her mind flashes _Alamonov_—"they should be somewhat easy to get a hold of."

Bourne hurumphs his approval, then pauses. Pam takes advantage of the break.

"How do I get these to you?"

He considers for a moment. "St. Patrick's Cathedral, tenth pew from the southeast corner. Sit closest to the edge of the middle aisle and tape the files underneath the bench. I'll find them."

Pam writes down the instructions as quickly as she can, and then leans back in her chair.

"Alright," she says.

"…thank you." Bourne says after a short pause.

Pam dips her head in acknowledgement, at the same time of tearing off the Post-It and placing it at the corner of her desk. She taps at the paper thoughtfully, then frowns.

"You should get these by 2:10." Pam says. "But if—"

"You'll be hearing from me," Bourne says calmly. "If nothing appears by 2:30, you'll get a call at 3:00.

"Good-bye, Pam."  
The line goes dead. Pamela—slightly irritated—moves the cell away from its position on her ear and turns to glare pointedly out the window. She stares for a moment, scanning the glass of the skyscrapers and the busy streets below, before she pivots back to the desk and the Post-It.

Pam gingerly peels it off the desk and looks at the paper cradled in her palm, eyes flickering over the names in a quiet apprehension.

_ILW._

_Lansing_

_Mark Andierti._

_Rachel Clemens._

_Sergei Alamonov._

Pam reaches for the land-line, then stops, hand suspended over the receiver nervously. She glances back at the paper, biting on the inside of her cheek. Looks towards the receiver.

_A small favor. No bloodshed required._

Pam seizes the phone and snaps it up to her ear, punching in her pass code quickly. The phone buzzes once before a connection is made. Amid the quiet sounds of cubicle-world, a voice—alert, calm and feminine—makes itself heard.

"Hello?"

"Kim?" Pam starts. "It's Landy. I need some names..."


	17. Angry Nonna

St. Patrick's—like all churches located on the inter-city grid—poses as a paradox. 

Outside the great cathedral--which looms quietly above 5th Ave and Rockefeller Plaza like an benevolent monster of old-- civilization hurries about at its best and worst, with people bustling to get everywhere for every reason but the one they truly want.

In short: it is a zoo. Everything is moving, pushing to get somewhere, and _needing _to find whatever is needed as quickly as possible. Only tourists slow down and—as we've said before—tourists are considered more of an accepted nuisance than anything else.

…but that's what's so funny St. Patrick's. Once one steps through the great black doors, and screens past security, all is calm.

Peaceful.

Elegant.

Majestic.

And, greatest of all…

Quiet.

Granted, there are tourists who flash their cameras, chatter loudly at the striking stained glass and stare at parishioners as if they are animals on display…but there are _always_ tourists who do that.

The majority—who are humble of a god they do (or do not) believe in—quietly move about with only their eyes talking. The lips, careful of an unspoken truce between what is said and what is not, keep themselves shut.

Jason likes these people, finds himself grateful for their courtesy and their open reverence of the structure and those who built it. He has a respect for quiet, invisible people in general, but in a church those who silently move about he only respects even more.

The pew in the southwest corner is—as he had originally suspected—deserted. Too close to tourists to be peace, yet not far enough to be quiet, the bench has entered a purgatory state. Being also that mass ended no more than a half-an-hour ago, traffic in general has slowed…slightly.

Jason makes his way through the aisle, glancing back at security (_just to be safe,_ Cain whispers), before he slips into the pew and sits down. A old woman—Italian, by the looks of it—shoots him a somewhat guarded look from her position at the opposite side of the bench, then moves her gaze back to the front and bows her head. Jason watches her a moment longer before turning his own attention to the front. He sits for a moment, staring blankly, then closes his eyes and tries to relax.

The peace is alluring, almost hypnotizing in its grace. A more human part of him jerks on a sleeve and asks him if he can just spend the rest of his trip here, but Jason shrugs it off. He'd like to stay here--like to feel a pseudo-feeling of safety and comfort even though he doesn't believe in the Christian ideals—but knows reluctantly that there are other things he must do.

Much more important things.

That human part tugs on his sleeve again.

_More important than God?_

Jesus Christ, _where _is that voice coming from? It's not Cain, not instinct…

"_Daddy, can't we stay here…?"_

Jason jerks backwards and winces as a headache begins to gnaw on his frontal lobe, surprised by this new intruder slamming into his already bruised brain. The Italian woman pulls her face up from clasped hands and glances over again, now looking slightly irritated. In response, Jason shoots her a fenced glare before turning away—now facing the nave—and frowning.

He doesn't know that voice. Doesn't know what the memory is and doesn't know what that damned human part—still trying to attach itself to his sleeve—_is. _

…this worries Jason. Worries him a lot.

But he tries to brush it off. He has a file he has to read through by five tonight before he begins to re-evaluate who and what he should be after to protect Webb.

And—quite frankly—Jason would like to think that his brother is just a little more important than a little stranger in his head.

(Like to think is the key, here.)

Straightening his shoulders and pivoting his head carefully, Bourne glances down the nave, then slowly—and as discreet as possible, considering he doesn't want to piss the _nonna_ off more than he already has—turns back towards the bench. Another moment's pause. Jason, acting like a tired man who came here for a break, leans backwards and slumps down in the seat, dangling one arm over the side of the bench while resting the other on the seat. The hand crawls beneath the pew like a spider—fingers outstretched and straining—and as subtly as possible feels about for the texture of a manila folder. For three tense seconds Jason—still trying to maintain a picture of weariness and not frown in blind frustration like he wants to—fumbles about blindly. It's another two seconds before his hand finally slides across the whisper-smooth surface.

Another four seconds. Jason rolls his neck, and--hearing the crack of cartilage and seeing no suspicious looks—leans sharply to the left, resting most of his body on the armrest at the edge of the pew. The hand, now having just enough forearm to successfully grasp the file, slides underneath a corner of the folder and jerks.

Jason coughs to cover the slap of the manila dossier on the tile and draws himself back into his original position. He counts down from ten, looks around again to see if anyone is near him, and then slides a foot underneath the bench, nudging the folder towards him. As soon as he sees the white edge, he stoops down and picks it up, tucking it near his side.

Another scan.

Nothing.

Jason exhales audibly and stiffens, getting himself prepared to leave. The _nonna _only shoots him a mildly terrified look as he stands, but says nothing. He gives her a curt nod of acknowledgement anyway, then moves out of the aisle and slips the file underneath his rain jacket. The morning had looked nice enough, but knowing the northeast coast, around two or three there would be a storm on its way.

Sure enough, as Jason slips back through security and ushers himself outside, he notices that the sky is darkening like a vivid bruise and—after briefly glancing up to feel a raindrop collide with his forehead-- realizes that the storm is about to unleash its quick fury on New York.

…it would be best not to get the file wet, wouldn't it?

Jason hurries towards a subway as discreetly as his legs can carry him, and within ten minutes finds himself sitting down on an uncomfortable plastic seat, sitting across from a gawky young man whose tie is too tight for his thin neck. The two evaluate each momentarily before the younger decides that staring wouldn't be in his best interests and moves away.

Good idea.

* * *

**A/N: ** When I was in NYC this summer, I didn't get to hang out and act like a stupid tourist as long as I would've liked...therefore, my observations of St. Patty's Cathedral might be a _little _off. I shamefully will confess that I DID have to look up some stuff on Wikipedia as to church lingo and whatnot because I--being mellow and ignorant--did not know as much as I would've liked.

So: if anyone who has been to St. Patrick's or knows the Catholic building structure really well finds some inconsistances, please inform me, the Ugly American. It would be kindly appreciated.

Also: many thanks to **Darlian** and** PretendFan** for your constant reviews--even if you believed they were somewhat 'late'. I was just glad I got something in the first place. 8D

Happy belated holidays and New Year!


	18. Shadow Boxing

Lauren Handel checks back into her hotel at three on Tuesday afternoon, running in frantically from the pouring rain outside to shake her umbrella out on the foyer. A moment's pause—to which Handel tries to regain some dignity—before she comes up to the front desk, eyebrows lifted in a future question. The clerk behind raises his eyes from the computer monitor then takes a step back and smiles courteously. 

"Hello, Ms. Handel," he says.

She nods, jerks her chin to point outside. "Some crazy weather we're having, huh?" Her voice, dripping with Southern geniality, oozes across the lobby.

The clerk gives a false laugh. "Yes, well, it _is _a New York summer."

Lauren blinks slightly—ignoring the barely perceptible barb at her rich-tourist status--before leaning forward. "Any messages for me?" She twists the umbrella hanging on her wrist lazily.

The clerk shakes his head. "No, ma'am. There was a phone call for you from a Mr. Daniel Pike, but that was it."

She stiffens. "A phone call?"

The clerk notices the change in voice and shifts slightly. "Yes."

"Did he leave a message?"

Shake of the head. "No."

Handel relaxes, and--at the somewhat curious look of the clerk--gives a reassuring smile, revealing blindingly white teeth.

"Well…thank you—" she glances at the name tag again, always forgetful—"Peter. Your services are appreciated."

He dips his head in reply. "Of course, ma'am."

There is that awkward moment of silence before Lauren pivots on her heel--balancing over the stilettos she's wearing is an easily graceful task for her—and strides off, readjusting the now-closed umbrella into a position where it's not entirely uncomfortable dangling off her wrist.

Thirty-seconds to the elevator.

Two-minutes to floor five.

And ten seconds to her room. Lauren reaches her door and—shifting the purse on her shoulder to a position where she can rummage through it—clumsily maneuvers with the card-lock. She's been in many hotels before—many of them nice and expensively paid for—but for the life of her still cannot figure out how to _work _those damn plastic keys. They're almost as easy to lose as spare change.

…which she loses on a more-than-occasional basis.

The green light flashes. Lauren pushes forward on the knob impatiently, nearly tripping over herself as the door snaps open, and then freezes. Southern ditzy-ness momentarily is lost to something resembling New Yorker paranoia.

The thin clear fishing wire she had taped between the door frame and the door on the upper right-hand corner of the door was just narrowly separated before she tripped her way in.

She only left the hotel two hours ago. She knows very well that when she checked into the hotel, she deliberately requested no house-cleaning unless called.

…so someone is _in _the room.

_Act calm. Act cool. Are we out of character?_

The Southern Belle returns. Handel readjusts her floral-pattern skirt and pink v-neck, coughing awkwardly as she moves towards the door and nudges it closed with a foot. She pauses, then reaches down and balances on one leg, taking off her heels quietly. The stilettos are neatly placed in a corner before Lauren straightens her back and exhales audibly. She rolls her shoulders, moves a quick glance at the black-out drape darkened room and then strides towards the bathroom located about ten feet away.

The light flickers on, blindingly racing through the darkened suite as it falls across a bedroom in the not-so-distant corner. Lauren peeks around the corner as discreetly as she can, keeping her gaze between the mirror and the living room outside. The (now pseudo-red) hair is carefully readjusted into the frenzied-bun look, with all attention seemingly focused on the hairdo, but Lauren can swear that she sees a motion jerk at the corner of the room, just barely balancing between light and shadow.

She pulls back from the doorway—leaning her lower body on the marble counter—and brings her hands down from her hair. Eyes evaluate the mirror and wary, tense face staring back before looking down, searching.

There's the hairbrush.

The tweezers haphazardly shoved into a corner.

The hairspray which—in the heat of the moment—can easily pack as much of a punch as mace in the eyes be it that is the wanted affect.

…and then there's the razor.

Lauren moves her gaze back to the mirror, looks at herself levelly, and then exhales.

A hand moves to the side and pulls at the medicine cabinet. Carefully popping out with a gentle click, the door swings open and in the process reveals three razors, one knife, more tweezers and a plethora of facial products.

…oh, and the Kel-Tec P-11.

Lauren instinctively reaches for the gun, cautious to make it seem as inconspicuous—it is a gun, whether it be pocket-sized or not—as possible. She slides underneath her palm and takes a step back--keeping her hand away from the doorway and thus sight—as she rests her forearm on the counter.

Another glance at the mirror.

_Hello, Hailey. _

Hailey grins back at her reflection.

…the fake ids can only work for a while, she reflects, before someone finds her. Normally she'd be panicking, frantically trying to readjust, but Hailey _thinks _she knows who it is.

At least she can have the element of surprise, right?

Maybe not. The shadow flickers again, closer this time, and Hailey can hear the barely perceptible shuffle of feet over carpet. Cold Hailey evaluates in seconds, and then decides. She makes a motion as to thumb off the safety, then stops.

_Would it be the smartest idea to fire an un-silenced weapon in a hotel room?_

Cold Hailey moves her finger away.

The sound is closer now. Yet another split-second assessment.

Ten feet away at the most.

_React. _

Hailey grips the gun in one hand, finger over the trigger guard, and—as if in slow motion—pivots, snapping her hand towards the light switch and plummeting the room into darkness. She drops into a crouch instantly, gun held firmly in both hands.

The shuffle stops.

And reconsiders.

Hailey--grateful for the fact she took off her stilettos and now can move silently in her bare feet--slowly creeps forward, sliding her way out of the bathroom and turning her back towards the wall.

She pauses.

…and swears that she can _hear _breathing no more than a meter away.

The adrenaline rush stops momentarily, blocked by a fear that clogs the throat. Eyes frantically trying to readjust to the darkness, Hailey can only make out shadows and carpet and now realizes that—while her move blinded her attacker—she isn't exactly out of the red-zone, either.

_Doesn't matter. Move. _

Hailey obeys, balancing on the balls of her feet as she sneaks as quietly as she can to the edge of the wall. Holding her breath, she moves up into a standing position and—it has to be a second at the most—lowers her gun.

…the force of the blow a nanosecond afterwards—a shoulder ramming itself into her abdomen--knocks her entirely off balance, throwing her into the wall with a loud thud that echoes in her brain. Abruptly pinned, Hailey fights for balance amid the mind-jarring pain and strikes out hard with her pistol hand at the shadow she can now decipher only a foot away.

The gun cracks against bone. The attacker gives a sharp intake of breath and adjusts position just enough for Hailey to move. She strikes out again, harder this time, and feels a sick twist of satisfaction at the _thump _of flesh on metal that responds.

But the attacker isn't going to give up easily, and—even in the darkness—maneuvers suddenly, reaching up and grabbing at her gun hand as she comes down for another blow.

So far the exchange has been silent, but now Hailey feels a sound coming up in her throat. Snarling in both surprise and quick frustration, she writhes, trying to free her right hand for the iron-grip sealed around the wrist.

Doesn't work. The hand starts to move its way back towards the wall, and now the Attacker adjusts his—it has to be a he, females are _never _this strong—weight to completely trap her against the wall.

More fear. More adrenaline. In a nanosecond another plan occurs to Hailey and—desperate for a way out—she takes it. Dropping her legs out beneath her suddenly, Hailey collapses downward, completely taking her weight with her and in the process surprising the Attacker.

Another inhale. The guy is clearly trying to keep it together, but in his surprise moves his weight to the back leg, releasing just enough pressure for Hailey to break her right hand free.

She does, twisting her entire arm sharply to the side and feeling her shoulder nearly _pop _out with the stress. Another twist, and this time—now she has to be at his stomach—Hailey bulls herself forward, plowing her head into _his _gut and knocking him off balance.

They both fall. Hailey jerks herself backwards as he tilts backwards, and splits herself away, grappling for a better grip on the gun now-sweaty in her hand. One of his hands—now in the process of collapsing with a body—snaps forward and tries to get a grip on her shoulder, snatching at bare skin and scratching Hailey's upper arm in the process. She twists, dislodging the nails on her skin, and gives another snarl as she hears the Attacker's body give a dull _thump _upon arrival to floor. She pushes to stand.

The man is determined. She'll give him that much. As Hailey shoves herself into a wobbly standing position, she hears the quiet whisper of cloth and then is surprised to find herself on the floor as well, legs kicked out from under her. The gun is lost amid the fall, thrown against a corner with a crack, and Hailey breaks herself into a roll, trying to move herself towards her one true defense and in the process disengage herself from this stranger.

No such luck. Weight slams into her from behind and Hailey grunts, feeling the breath in her lungs leave in a great whoosh of air. Flailing, she tries to lift an elbow from underneath her pinned body and swings it behind.

Another crack. Another bone bruised by bone. The Attacker curses now, clearly getting angry, and tries to move into a position where Hailey can't move.

But he's riding a dangerous beast. It might've been better if the contact had been face-to-face, but as it is, Hailey is kissing carpet and he's nearly sitting on her back.

She bucks, snapping her head behind her and arching her spine. The move causes the column to yelp in pain, but Hailey ignores it. If she listens to pain now, she'll die.

She has to get to the gun, and get to light. She can only fight blindly so long before she can't fight any more.

Light of gun.

One or the other, or—more preferably—both.

The Attacker _is—_yet again—surprised by this. The mass shifts just enough for Hailey to slither her way out, and she does, clawing at the carpet like an animal possessed and kicking at the man's body as she does so, striking out particularly hard at what she assumes is his shoulder. He claws at a foot. Hailey snatches it back and elevates herself into a crawl, no longer slithering, but now on her hands and knees. She shuffles as frantically as possible for the gun and—hearing motion behind her—lunges forward abruptly, throwing herself into the corner of the wall and towards her gun.

She gropes for it, hands batting at the wall, the carpet and the vertices in between hysterically. Finally, there's metal, and Hailey latches her hand around it just in time to hear the Attacker dive for her. Feet finally pull themselves underneath Hailey and she shoves herself to the side, jumping out of the way. The Attacker plows into the wall.

Hailey unsteadily staggers towards faint light emanating twelve feet away.

The window.

Her savior.

She's two feet from it when the Attacker drops her, hands wrapped around her calves like tentacles of steel. Giving a surprised yelp, Hailey spins around and stretches out with the last remaining strength she has, latching a hand onto the black-out curtains and jerking them backwards as she falls.

The same motion somehow enables Hailey to get a firm grip on her gun, and as she does so, she winds her torso around, thumbing off the safety blindly and reaching for the trigger.

There's the pull.

_Click. _

Now somewhat dazed by more light that has streamed in, Hailey continues to try to pull the trigger frantically and sightlessly, index finger jerking and jerking before she realizes with a terrible dread that the clip is empty.

_Someone emptied it._

Eyes open and the mouth makes a sound of surprise. Hailey tries to speak but her larynx doesn't cooperate. Shaking her head at the figure still embracing her legs, she weakly raises a hand to try to bat at the head, but finds to her dismay that her arms are…going numb.

Finally words come. Or, rather—one word. Anguished as it is surprised and afraid, it grates itself up her throat painfully.

"W-w-why?"

Dan rises from his position around her legs, flicking off the last droplets left on the hypodermic and wincing as he rises to his feet. He looks sad.

Devastated.

…and cold.

"You fucked up, Hailey."

She shakes her head again, eyes going frantically from the needle she knows just killed her to her own _brother_—her blood brother, for Christ's sake—before she tries to speak again.

"N-no." Hailey says weakly. "No."

Dan crouches down until he's face-to-face with his sister. He pauses a moment before continuing.

"I have children, Hailey. I didn't want to get dragged into this but your boss decided that it wasn't up to me to really determine that." He fixes her with a gaze. "I have children, Hailey," Dan repeats. "I have children and a wife and I'm not going to let them die because you squealed." He goes to standing once again and looks down.

"It had to be done."

Hailey's throat works helplessly, and as she tries to speak she realizes that tears are the only things that can come up. They stream down her face uncontrollably as she hiccups, trying to get words in but realizing that she's getting dreadfully tired.

…then Dan is down again, now face-to-face with her. The two lock eyes and it comforts Hailey to know that he isn't entirely a cold bastard. The eyes shake slightly with sadness and a deep pain, but beneath that a quiet anger.

The world begins to go dark. Before everything flickers, Hailey hears only one thing.

"I'm sorry, Hailey."

…and then nothing.

* * *

**A/N: **Don't worry...it really pained me to have to kill Hailey. But as I thought it over, I realized that in that big-wide-world of corporate and political espionage, if you screw up the prices you pay are steep--espeacially so in Hailey's case.

Who knows? I'm depressed as hell for killing her like I did...maybe (because I can do that, heh-heh) I'll bring her back in the not-so-distant future. Probably not, but hey, there is that probably, isn't there?

Many thanks to **G.A. Clive **for her ever-enthusiastic reviews, as well as the constant support of **Pretend Fan **and **Darlian**. I'm somewhat happy to say that yesterday I hit over 1,000 hits for this story alone (for many, that might not be a lot, but consider who you're dealing with) and was very happy that people have been reading it was as much vigor as they have been. Thank you so much. It truly is appreciated.

Well...onward we go, huh?


	19. The Notebook

_Sometimes they'd have days where they would just sit in the house and talk quietly for hours on end, oblivious to the ocean and people outside and the busy world that surrounded them. _

_The conversations tended to be happy ones, mainly with Marie talking about her family and her life. She asked him once whether talking about _her _past bothered him, and he said no. She gave him a memory that he didn't have, for which he was grateful. _

_The awkward smile would light on her lips at his reply. She'd look down for a moment, glance at her feet or maybe her hands figeting in her lap, and then look up, her dialogue starting back up, complete with the million-mile-an-hour speed talking outrageous hand motions. _

_Sometimes, though, the humor and happiness vanished entirely, giving way to serious talks that dragged on deep into the night with coffee and tea at hand on the hour. _

_These talks were almost always about Jason, and these were the times when he could've sworn Marie wasn't really a woman who had made it her life to be a nomad; with her sharp questions, careful observance and easy acknowledgement of what he did and did not say, Jason knew that in a past life she was a psychologist, or a person of the mind-games._

_Periodically, that knowledge scared him. He tried to shake it off, tried to shake off that strange sense of foreboding about the words _psychiatrist _and _shrink_, but sometimes the uneasiness would not go away. _

_These were times when he got nervous._

_Tonight they were crowded about the small table in the kitchen. The dinner—in the short time they'd lived in Greece the food was rapidly becoming Marie's specialty—had been moved off the table, uneaten, and had given way to two cups of tea and two pairs of eyes, one evaluating and the other being evaluated. _

_She asked him the first question, though it was tentative and very quiet. _

_"What do you think of guilt?"_

_Jason frowned. "What do you mean?"_

_Marie paused, took a sip of her tea. When she spoke again, it was slowly, as if with great reluctance. "Sometimes," she said, biting her lip, "I think you're running from something, Jason, not of the past or the present. Something _inside _your head."_

_He wanted to bristle at this, wanted to bare his teeth and tell her _well of course it's in his goddamn head, _but then realized that he wasn't thinking of the same thing that she was. _

_Another frown. "I don't understand."_

_Marie pursed her lips and placed her mug back on the table, staring at it. A moment went by like that, with her staring pointedly at the mug and chewing at the inside of her cheek before she finally spoke. _

_"What are you trying to get rid of, Jason?" She moved her gaze from the mug to stare at him, brown eyes quiet and questioning. "Why do you feel you have to redeem yourself?"_

_Jason didn't like this conversation, didn't like how she was questioning what she knew was obvious. He opened his mouth to speak, but then she stopped him. _

_"This isn't about the past." Marie said firmly._

_"But it is," he replied, voice low. "We keep digging and I keep telling you what I kno—"_

_"No, you don't." She interrupted. "You think you do, but in reality there's a word here or there, and then nothing."_

_His right hand, which had been lying flat on the tabletop, tensed up. Marie's eyes flickered downward and she stopped, brow furrowed. She reached forward and covered the hand with her own. Jason glanced up, but said nothing. The two paused, both careful of something, and then Marie swallowed.  
_

_"I get scared for you," she said softly, tapping the back of his hand gently. "Scared that this—this guilt you have is going to burn you. You don't know what it is but you're always trying to get away from it, always trying to run...Jason," she gripped his hand emphatically and leaned forward, eyes at the same time tender and scared, "—how can you escape from something that you don't even see?" _

_He moved his thumb under her grip, flexing it lightly before shaking his head. _

_"I don't know." _

_She paused a moment, trying to find his eyes in their lowered gaze, and then sighed deeply. Extracting her hand from his, she moved it back to the mug, back to familiarity and safety. There was a long and painful silence before Marie cleared her throat. _

_Jason forced himself to look up. _

_"I have a present for you," she said, attempting to smile. _

_Mildly curious and at the same time wary, he raised an eyebrow. Marie took it as a cue to continue. The fake smile fell off slightly as it gave way to a barely concealed excitement, and she grinned briefly._

_"Wait here," she ordered. Jason obeyed, leaning back in his chair and watched as she scooted out from the table and rose quickly, moving around behind him and out of sight. There were sounds of rapid shuffling, clothes and books being thrown left and right and then finally a triumphant grunt. Bewildered by the abrupt change in mood—how Marie had suddenly gone from downright serious to playful—he craned his neck, trying to see behind him. She peeked out from the corner and glowered, body shielded behind the wall. _

_"Don't look."_

_Trying not to frown outright, Jason obeyed yet again, turning his head from staring at Marie and looking back at the table, at his own chipped mug of tea. She paused a moment behind him, then shuffled forward, swinging around the table and gracefully sliding back to her seat. While her left hand instantly came up to the top of the table, the right stayed below. _

_Cain tensed. Jason tried to ignore what he was telling him and instead focused on Marie, on her smiling—the grin had given way to a more mature form of happiness—face and on her eyes as she waited for him to ask the billion-dollar question. _

_He was still bewildered by the change in pace, but made himself adapt, play the game._

_"What is it?"_

_The grin jerked down momentarily, then sprang back up as Marie pulled her right hand from under the table and plopped it on the table, with a rectangular package in tow. _

_Jason regarded it carefully, blinking slowly and lifting his arms up to reach across and take it, and as he brought it to him--wincing slightly at the rough sound of paper sliding on the tile table—a nail pried its way under the brown wrapping. There was a pause. Jason glanced up at her, stopping as he noticed that the smile was gone.  
_

_A ghost of a smile flickered. Marie gave a slow nod. "It's okay, Jason. It won't bite."_

_He stared at her a second longer before moving his attention back to the package. A moment went by as he fought with the wrapping—finally peeling it off before Marie could try to help him—and then they both froze, blinking at the small brown notebook lying in front of them. _

_Another look at Marie. She stared expectantly at him, and then motioned for him to pick it up._

_He did, though carefully, as if it was some creature that was foreign to him. In the curious silence that followed, Jason once again shot Marie a questioning glance. She stared at him for a moment, face still composed in that odd look of--what was it?--wistfullness, and then she pulled out of the reverie; leaning forward like a mother careful of her son's new unknown present, Marie reaching a hand towards the notebook and gently pulling it from his grasp. The book was placed back on the table, with Marie tapping the cover gently for emphasis.  
_

_"This is for you, Jason." she said quietly. "For your memories."_

_He opened his mouth to mention the spiral notebook he had shoved in the nightstand every night, but she stopped him. _

_"This is a present, honey-- something you can remember and keep instead of that ratty notebook."_

_Jason picked it up again letting his hands examine the surface thoughtfully as his gazed stayed on Marie._

_"Why?"_

_She smiled softly, motioned with those always silently speaking hands towards the book. "Your demons need to have faces. I don't want you running from something you can't see." A beat before she continued, softer now. _

_"You need a place to put these ghosts to sleep."_

_He furrowed his brow, stopping and carefully turning down to look at the notebook with its yellowed paper and compact frame, and then stared back up, eyes filled with something resembling gratitude and sadness. _

_"Thank you," Jason said quietly. _

_Marie grinned awkwardly, pushing herself up from the table and coming around to his seat. She leaned against his head for a moment, planting a kiss at his forehead, and then moved off, rounding back to her side of the table and thus dishes. Jason rose out of his own chair and came up beside her, turning on the leaky, barely-existing faucet and grabbing a plate. _

_The two continued their cleaning routine silently, no words needed to express anything. _

_The dishes were enough._

* * *

When he wakes up, his hands are shaking and sweat is clinging to his forehead. There's that brief moment of confusion and terror and then Jason remembers that he's in the cockroach hotel, head resting on the manila folder he was reading over so carefully and light turned on as a quiet reminder that he's just fallen asleep at the wheel.

...he hates it when that happens.

Jason winces under the light, eyelids feeling sore and head reeling, and carefully moves a hand upwards, grabbing at the shitty light fixture before he realizes that it's at the base of the lamp. More fumbling, and then the light turns off. He falls back in the chair and closes his eyes.

_Had a nightmare, ol' boy? _Cain drawls from a corner in mild amusement.

_You know it wasn't. _He replies quietly. _Marie is never a nightmare. _

_But that notebook is, isn't it?_

He doesn't answer.

It's that time again. That time when Jason extracts himself from his work and rummages through his backpack for the small leather notebook he still hasn't gotten rid of. It's that time for him to sit at the table, perch his pen on the paper and force himself to write, even if he doesn't understand it or want to see the words that his hand scribbles wildly and without reason.

Jason hates this, but it's necessary. The inner demons have spoken and have decreed that names he doesn't recognize, files chock-full of bullshit and American diplomacy at their best aren't important now. It's the notebook.

Besides, he knows enough by now to get a general idea of what to do for Gordon.

It'll all happen tomorrow. Like it always does.

But now, at one in the morning, it's writing time.

Jason returns to the table and carefully moves the manila folders aside. He waits another moment before fumbling for the lights switch and flicking it on.

The laments of an un-remembering brain begin.

Like they do every night.

* * *

**A/N: **Awww...how cute. We got ourselves some angst going on...not. D8 I apologize for the very out-of-place filler chapter, but for now I'm at an impasse with my writing and muh brain decided to go a little bit emo for the time being. Hopefully it won't last any longer than this. 

Many thanks to **PretendFan** and **gostlcards**--nice to have you back--for your reviews.

Well...enjoy or unenjoy, hopefully there will be more to come. For now,

Cheers.


	20. Politics

When he speaks, Gordon feels himself trying to retreat and force his head down into his collarbone.

If he was a turtle, his skull would be retracted into his shell at least five inches, but as it is, Gordon is not a turtle. He's a high-ranking, highly respected employee who is currently in the doghouse, being grilled in his own office by a man three floors above him.

Eric Debrouillard might talk like a village idiot, but if he's angry, one can tell. The Southern drawl—once like lazy, oozing molasses—suddenly becomes molten lava; it's still slow, but now is scorching to the touch.

"You just caused a big problem, Gordon," he says, simply and matter-of-factly. "You've pissed off some very important customers and I don't know if we can handle that."

Gordon fidgets nervously with a pen on his desk, twirling it between his fingers, and then stops, suddenly realizing something. The honesty that he had been hired for bulls its way through the phone, oblivious of the subordinate-status that he has.

"You told me that ILW stays, Eric."

Pause on the other line.

Long pause.

Debrouillard's voice comes back on, disturbingly quiet and cool. "Come up to my office, Gordon. We need to talk face-to-face."

The line goes dead.

Gordon stares at the receiver for a long moment, pulling it away from his ear and looking at it quizzically, then slowly returns the phone to its cradle.

He stares another second and then mechanically pushes himself out of his chair, arms bracing themselves on the desk and legs—as if lead—pulling themselves into a standing position.

Dread fills Gordon. He has been asked only twice in his two decades with the Debrouillard Corporation to come up to Eric's office personally. Both times the two nearly beat each other to death with words, with Eric quietly reminding him of his position and Gordon loudly recapping _why _he gave him the job in the first place.

But this seems different. Eric Debrouillard rarely cools his temper as quickly as moments before. He is a man who rages and calms in slight stages—not rapid rises and descents.

The alarm bells begin to jingle.

As he reaches the door, Gordon pauses and lightly rests his fingers on the knob, considering. He still can't figure out—beyond his refusal to Douglas Corps, that is—why there was a change in attitude, why the tone entirely became from hostile and dangerously defensive to quietly anxious.

Realization hits.

That's it.

_Fear. _

_…but about what?_

Marty shoots Gordon a look as he strides by, eyes wide behind thick lenses at the sight of his friend and coworker taking the march of doom to Debrouillard's, and then bows his head as a silent 'good luck'.

Gordon tries not to notice it, tries not to think of why on Earth he would need good luck to speak with his boss/comrade, but as he steps into the elevator, walks onto Debrouillard's floor and suddenly stands at the door, patiently waiting while Erin—Eric's secretary—to ring him in, it occurs to Gordon that there is something more going on.

The reality hits him just as he steps in to see Debrouillard looking twenty pounds lighter and three shades paler.

Gordon stops abruptly, jumping at the thud of the door shutting behind him.

Debrouillard sighs, evaluating his pseudo-protégé one moment longer before wearily motioning to a seat in front his desk.

"Sit down, Gordon," he says. "Sit down now."

* * *

"You pissed off Dieter." Debrouillard says after a moment's pause. "That was a very dangerous thing to do." 

Gordon inhales audibly and leans back in his chair, pursing his lips.

"Why?" he finally asks.

Eric shifts. "Have you dealt with Douglas Corporations often, Gordon?"

Gordon shakes his head. "No."

"Then you have a lot to learn," Debrouillard says quietly, tension visible on every line of his face.

The two sit in silence for a minute, maybe two, before Gordon clears his throat. He leans forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. Eric stares at him for a long moment, waiting.

"What's—what's going on?"

Debrouillard gives a Parisian-like shrug. "You pissed people off, Gordon," he says tersely. "You pissed a very dangerous man and business off."

"How?"

His boss shakes his head slowly, the signs of the earlier anger rearing its head slightly.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Webb," he says, voice low. "You _know_ how."

Gordon blinks, then clenches his teeth, trying to rein back on his temper. "You told me always to keep with what we had if it was valuable."

Eric nods slowly. "I did."

"Then what changed with ILW?"

Debrouillard exhales audibly and brings his gaze from the desk back up to Gordon, looking pained.

"Politics," he says softly.

"Politics?"

"Politics." Eric says with anguished finality. He grunts, pulling himself out of his chair and standing, moving to look out the window at the vast expanse of New York.

"I'm getting old, Gordon," he murmurs. "I'm getting up there and I don't know…" Debrouillard falters and pivots his head to look back at Gordon. A faint smile lights on his lips, cynical in its position.

"You've heard this bullshit before," he says dryly. "You know where I'm coming from."

Gordon shakes his head. "Not where you're coming from, Eric," he says quietly.

Rage flickers across Debrouillard's features briefly, then smoothes itself down as he turns back towards his seat, resting down in the chair with a quiet _oomph_. He stares hard at Gordon, then purses his lips.

"What do you want me to say, Gordon? I'm old. I can't do this bullshit anymore."

"_What _happened?" Gordon asks, brow furrowed. "Why are you acting like this?"

Eric opens his mouth as if to speak, then snaps his mouth shut. His gaze moves from Gordon to the desk, and a hand begins to tap at the surface unconsciously.

"ILW is going, Gordon," he says finally, breaking the silence. He glances up. "I suggest that you don't pursue this any further."

End of discussion.

_Wham. _Like a door slamming on his face.

For a moment Gordon tries to get his bearings and say something in return of this lunge he can't parry, but nothing comes. Only shock and disbelief can push themselves forward and—even then—they're speechless.

Like a machine mechanically flicked on, Gordon rises out of his chair and turns wordlessly away from his boss, walking slowly towards the door. He pauses at the threshold for a second, shooting a backwards glance towards Debrouillard, but when there is no reaction, moves through the door, slamming it loudly behind him.

Erin glances at him, caught in a look between anxiety and pity as he stiffly strides past her.

He can only glare in reply.


	21. Window of Opportunity

**T**he air tonight is colder than usual, carrying the ominous sign of a rapidly approaching thunderstorm. 

Jason hates thunderstorms. Hates rain. Winter is so much better in its silence, its peaceful elegance and the quiet way it extinguishes unworthy drivers and/or people in general.

Thunder is vicious, though. Nature's way of scaring the shit into people and reminding them that she has the power to kill, _bitch. _

...but that's not the real reason he hates the storms–he hates them because they remind him of Marseilles.

He doesn't like remembering Marseilles. Doesn't like seeing the girl's wide-eyed stare at the man pointing the gun at her father's head. Doesn't like that paradox of fire and ice engulfing his whole body as he rolls off the boat and sees the explosion and the flames...

Yeah. Thunderstorms suck.

But Jason will tough it out. He knows, now, who put out the kill on Gordon. He doesn't know everything, but he knows enough to get a good idea where to go. Time is running out for his brother, and only a few people hold the key elements to getting Gordon safe.

One of which should be coming out the door right about..._now. _

The back entrance slams open with a bang. Jason pivots his head and from his position behind the support column watches carefully as the Lawyer Man walks purposefully towards his beautifully kept Mercedes S10. Sinking lower in the seat, Jason pulls his body deeper into the shadows and grips the garrote in his hands tightly. Breathing and the heartbeat slow to a crawl.

_"Being calm is the only way you'll ever survive out here, Jason. Get anything above the seventy-five speed limit and you start losing control." _

Heartbeat is forty-six. He knows this because he checked his pulse right before he got into the car.

Sometimes adrenaline gets out of control. He understands that this happens when he runs, when he fights.

But interrogations are different. You let the hormones out and they cause dangerous things to happen. It's all about poise. Certainty.

Fear. Not yours–of course–but the fear of those who feel that execution is near.

...maybe figuratively, in this case.

The car chirps and the headlights flash once. Jason takes one more deep breath before shifting slowly and getting into position. Lawyer Man doesn't notice the black-on-black in the back of his car and throws open the door sharply, collapsing into his seat with a suspiciously easy grace.

Cain whispers to watch this man carefully.

He is–after all–a lawyer. Initial reactions cannot be trusted. Lord knows what's beneath the faux-Armani suit.

Five seconds pass. The car door slams and the cabin lights go off as he gets ready to punch his ignition button.

Jason doesn't give him that chance.

Pushing his body up from behind the driver's seat, Jason jerks his arms and the garrote over the headrest and down under Lawyer Man's neck, reining back instantly and trying to squeeze the windpipe.

Lawyer Man is fast. Though he initially reaches for his neck–instinct–he pulls his left hand away for the compartment at the side of the seat. Bourne sees this and pulls back hard, ignoring the bite of the string wound around his hands. .

"You go for that knife and you die," he hisses.

Lawyer Man freezes, eyes wide and breathing clearly audible. Jason waits another moment before relaxing only a little tension on garrote. Lawyer Man swallows, Adam's Apple bobbing painfully.

"What–what do you want?" he rasps.

Jason jerks on the line. Lawyer Man stiffens wheezily.

"Information. What do you know about Webb?"

No pause. Jason's impressed by the fact that this man acts quickly, knowing that it's better to babble than to pause when in doubt.

"Who?"

More tension.

"Don't bullshit me." Jason gets next to the man's ear and motions with a pull with his right hand on the line. "Twenty seconds is all it takes. What do you know about Webb?"

"He works for Debrouilliard."

Jerk. "And?"

The man tries to turn his head away from its forward facing position and see his attacker. Jason slacks his grip completely on the wire only momentarily to cuff Lawyer Man on the side of the head.

"I see you, you don't see me. That's the deal. Now," the wire makes its way back to the windpipe, though slower, "Webb."

Lawyer Man gulps. "He's a liability."

"Reason?"

Silence.

Jason pulls faster, tightening the garotte completely and adding more pressure than he knows is truly necessary.

"Reason?"

Lawyer Man moves his hands up to the noose and frantically tries to worm a hand under the string, frantically tries to get air back to his system. Jason moves his head away from the back of the headrest and out of striking distance and stiffens his grip.

"Twenty seconds," He reminds him.

"ILW," Lawyer Man wheezes. Jason relaxes slightly.

"Who?"

"ILW."

Jason releases the garrote for a second before coming back viciously, pulling hard on the wire.

"Tell me something I don't know, Dieter. Who did you hire?"

Dieter's mouth open and closes like a dying fish, eyes bulging and breathing severely strained. He shakes his head from side to side for a second, trying to ward off the oncoming darkness of unconsciousness before coughing.

"You know I can't give that–"

Tighter now. Bourne has to stop himself from yanking entirely and slicing through the skin, sinew and cartiledge and killing the man entirely.

"Fifteen seconds. Your body is dying."

Dieter bucks violently in his seat, tongue turning blue. Jason recognizes the signs and releases the bare minimum of tension to keep Chad Dieter awake. Sensing the narrow slack he's been given, Chad coughs again.

"They call him the Trackman." he finally squeaks.

"But what do you know him as?"

"Lans–" The cough becomes more violent. Dieter's body begins to shake. "Lansing."

Looser, now. Jason is letting him know he's being rewarded for good behavior.

"First name?"

Chad shakes his head. "There _is _none."

Tighter. "Are you sure?"

Frantically, Dieter shakes his head. "_Yes._"

Looser. "One more question. Is the hire still out on him?"

Chad stops shaking and suddenly goes very still. Irritated, Bourne jerks back on the line.

"This is getting old, Dieter," he says, voice low. "You only need to say 'yes' or 'no'."

Still as a stone.

Bourne shrugs. "I warned you..."

The earlier tugs, violent they may have been, are nothing considered to the power needed to actually _slice _through skin. It takes a certain pull in the right direction to get the thin wire to cut through and sever the artery. Jason has reined himself in until now knowing that Chad Dieter was more valuable to him alive than dead.

But he knows when the line needs to be pushed.

That time is now.

Jason tugs upward harshly, putting more strength into the pull than absolutely necessary. Chad's eyes bulge once again and he hisses slowly, bring his hands up in a futile attempt to get the wire away from his neck. Jason knows that he's bleeding now.

"Ten seconds. I'm not playing this time."

Dieter tries to shake his head, then stops, realizing that there's a high possibility he's going to die.

"_Yes_!" he chokes, trying to turn his eyes skyward. "For the love of God, _yes."_

The slightest of slack. "The window?"

"A day," Dieter rasps outstill clawing at the wire._ "_One more day to eliminate the problem."

Jason lets go of the garotte completely and in one smooth motion knocks his right hand against Dieter's temple. The man collapses instantly, head lolling into his shoulder, and Jason quickly reaches over the body and collects his wire. He leans back for a moment, trying to cool his shaking nerves, and breathes deeply.

One more day.

That's all he has.

Jason shoots the unconscious man in front of him one last glance before looking out the window at the garage.

There is no one.

A gloved hand latches onto the door handle. Jason pushes and winces as the door opens and the gentle beep of 'door ajar' comes on.

He vanishes outside before the cabin light can even orient itself to light up.

* * *

**A/N: **OMG, after many a long month, I have returned!

I myself am shocked at the fact I'm forcing myself to continue this, but I'd have to say without the constant, neverending support from **PretendFan** (whose name is somewhat ironic, considering...) I definitely would've killed this by now.

But it's not dead...and I'm writing the next two chapters as we speak. So please...if you have any crit or advice as to how to continue this, I'd really, really, really appreciate it.

Really.


	22. And Behind Door Number One

"**Y**ou worry me when you're out this late." Maris' voice, calm as it is, sounds unusually strained.

Gordon glances up from his desk to the clock at the top of the door frame.

"I'll be home by eleven, honey," he says, tapping a finger nervously on the top of the desk. "I just have to file through some paperwork."

There's a long pause. Over the phone Gordon can here the giggling laughter of Lily as she probably plays with one of her toys and the _click _of the dishwasher opening. Through the clang of plates and the clatter of silverware. Maris finally speaks.

"What's going on with work, Gordon?" she asks quietly.

Gordon bites his tongue, considering, then speaks.

"It's the new deal I'm pushing for," he says, sighing and fingering a manila file. "Something's come up and Eric's trying to shut it down."

"Does he have justification?"

Gordon pauses. "I don't think so."

"No?"

He shakes his head. "No."

Maris waits a minute, tsking at Lily–"honey, don't play with that plate"–before she continues. "Are you sure that he's not under a lot of stress?"

"I don't doubt that he isn't. But something is different about this, Maris. He's not the Eric you and I know."

The Debroulliards and the Webb family became close shortly after Gordon joined the band wagon. Once every month the two families–Eric and his now-deceased wife Helen, Gordon and Maris–would invite the other to dinner. Soon, the dinners extending into golf trips and sailing near New Hampshire, but it wouldn't be long before the fun would come to an end. With the quiet death of Helen in her sleep, Eric began to withdrawal, and his interaction with Maris and Gordon–while still there–was not nearly as friendly and personal as it had been before. The man had changed.

Like anyone else who experienced the death of a loved one.

"That Eric was gone five years ago," Maris says gently. "He hasn't been the same for a very long time. You know that."

Gordon opens the folder and scans the financial numbers carefully, then stops.

"But he's..."

"Yes?"

"Never mind." Gordon says, resigned. "I...I can't explain it, but he's just not what he used to be. Things have changed."

"And?"

"I don't know what to do."

Maris stops and Gordon imagines that she's giving a small, soft smile. "Is that why you're not going to be home until eleven?"

Gordon turns his gaze from the papers, glancing up again at the clock. "Yes."

He loves his wife. And it's not just because she's beautiful, smart, funny and kind. It's because she understands that situations change. It's because Maris just..._understands_.

"Be safe, Gordon." she says softly, tone empathetic. "I'll see you around eleven."

"Thank you," Gordon says. "I love you."

"Always," she replies.

The line goes dead. Gordon looks over at the telephone, smiling faintly, and rests it down on the cradle before inhaling audibly.

Another look at the clock.

Nine twenty-three. A look out the window informs Webb that he is one of the few souls in the three surrounding skyscrapers to still be sitting in his desk, working.

And generally Gordon is one of the first guys out come the five o'clock bell.

Well, he reflects, things are changing.

Take the financial reports, for instance. Gordon has been scanning over Douglas Corporation numbers, ILW and his own firm for the good four hours in search of inconsistencies, and has been frustrated to find nothing of substance. While he doesn't know entirely what he's looking for, Webb has a feeling that Debrouillard's reaction earlier is somehow bound to the manila file in front of him. He doesn't understand _how, _but there is a connection.

Call it instinct.

Marty himself had looked over Gordon incredulously when he told him what he wanted.

_"All of those numbers?"_

_"All of them. Every one."_

_Marty stared at Webb hard, fingers poised over the keyboard. "What are you doing?" he asked finally, brow furrowed. _

_"I need to look over some stuff."_

_Marty chuckled darkly, shaking his head and moving his hands away from his keyboard. "No, no, no," he said, "'Looking over some stuff' doesn't exactly demand ILW, Douglas Corporation and Debrouillard numbers." He stopped, narrowed his eyes. "You're up to something."_

_Gordon raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm doing something bad?"_

_Marty had his moments of strength, but a strong majority of the time he was quiet. His brief outburst moments ago muffled itself under Gordon's challenging stare. _

_"No," he said after a moment, turning back to the computer, "but I think it's _something. _And that worries me."_

_"I just want to look over numbers, Marty," Gordon said, trying to reassure his comrade. "It's a little thing and I want to make sure that what I think is wrong is not."_

_Fingers busily flying over the keyboard, Martin Sidlak shot an oblique glance over. "We have accountants for that, Webb. They do the grunt work, and they do it well."_

_"Not always." Gordon reminded him._

_Martin stopped. "No. Not always." He turned again, now swiveling his chair completely and looking up at the standing figure of Webb. A long moment passed. _

_"Will I be fucked over if I give you these?" he asked frankly, eyes sharp behind his glasses. _

_Impressed by Marty's unusual candor, Gordon tried to be honest. "I don't think so."_

_Shake of the head. "Nuh-uh. Will I?"_

_"I don't know."_

_There was a beat. Martin closed his eyes, sighing deeply. _

_"I trust you, Gordon," he said, opening his eyes, "I'm terrified by what you do but I swear to God," he focused his eyes on his superior, gaze intense, "so far, you haven't screwed Debrouillard over. So you must be doing something right."_

_Gordon remained silent, allowing Sidlak to make his own decision. _

_The decision came a moment later. "I'll give you the numbers," Marty said, nodding slowly as he pivoted the chair back to the computer and typed rapidly. "But I'm really hoping that you're going somewhere with this." His eyes swivelled. "You understand?"_

_Gordon nods his head once. "Yes."_

_Marty regarded Webb a moment longer before deliberately snapping his ring finger down on the 'Enter' key._

_"The files will be on your desk in thirty minutes." he said simply. "I hope you have enough time to look over three hundreds pages of paperwork."_

_Gordon opened his mouth in fake-shock. "You're not going to help me?"_

_A ghost of a smile lingered on Marty's lips. "No."_

_Maybe_, Gordon reflects now, head cradled in his hand as he absently marks one page of the ILW filing, _I should've threatened to fire him. _

He reconsiders. _No. That would only piss Marty off. _

Gordon flips the page, scanning over another. _He'd make sure I'd get five hundred pages of work, and maybe forward me twenty chain emails. _

_Yeah. _Third page flip. _Threats wouldn't have worked. Even with Bug-Eye Marty._

**17/12/04: -$392,100,746–-- DGC**

Gordon stops suddenly, eyes freezing.

_Glance over that number again. _

Though Gordon himself was shocked that Marty had gotten a hold of Douglas Corporations transactions and business dealings, he hadn't asked any questions and only preoccupied himself with making sure that the numbers were right.

...but now they are looking quite wrong. ILW is under Debrouillard's thumb. Douglas Corporations and ILW interaction should not exist until late 2006 at the earliest-- that in itself is more than a year away.

Gordon slowly swivels in his chair, keeping his left index finger glued to the transaction number as he rifles about with his right hand for DC numbers from 2004. After a few moments of disgruntled searching, he finally finds the folder and–yanking hard–he pulls the file to the top and flips open the tan cover.

May, July and September fly by in a blur, but the closer and closer the money comes to December, the thicker and thicker the pages suddenly become. By the time Gordon thumbs his way to December seventeenth, the month has already seen thirty-three pages of work.

A lot of money to go through in one month.

_Christmas presents, maybe?_

Carefully considering the numbers as they descend vertically, Gordon holds his breath as he waits for that magic number of **$392,100,746 **to suddenly appear.

It doesn't.

Brow furrowed, Gordon scans over again.

Nothing.

He doesn't know why it occurs to him, but it does. On whim, maybe instinct, Gordon turns his attention away from Douglas Corporation records and grudgingly moves towards his own company's file. Dread slowly fills him as he shuffles through 2005, and by the time he hits December, Webb feels as if he's going to be sick.

Down through December first, December seventh, the fifteenth...

There it is. The seventeenth of December.

Gordon scrolls down slowly, but by the time he hits **$392,100,746**, he already knows what's going to be there.

**17/12/04: -$392,100,746–-- DGC**

Big, black and bold. Like the deliberate and heavy gong of an execution bell.

Gordon closes his eyes for a moment and tries to breathe slowly. It might only be money, or maybe a critical error in accounting, but the fact that underhand dealing was going on between Douglas, ILW and Debrouillard before Gordon knew is suspicious.

And the fact that over three-hundred million dollars vanished off the Douglas Corporation file doesn't make it any less suspect.

Something is amiss in business-land.

Something bad.

...but now what?

The flicker of a dying light outside Gordon's office jerks him out of his reverie. Startled, he brings his eyes up from the file and stares at the door.

The hair on the nape of his neck rises.

_You're not safe here_, Instinct tells him quietly. _Now that you know..._

Staring at the door one moment longer, Gordon turns his head away and glances back down at the file in front of him, considering.

It's a grave offense to take financial documents into the outside world...especially if you're not supposed to see the files in the first place.

But what'll happen to them if Gordon _doesn't _take them? Marty might keep quiet about what transporting files, but that doesn't mean that someone won't stumble across some missing documents soon...particularly if the files are invaluable to a possible merger.

They might as well be deleted.

_So copy them. _

Gordon shoots another look at the door and at the clock reading ten-fifteen with an odd feeling of foreboding, but he brushes it off as he carefully rises out of his chair and pulls delicately at Debrouillard, ILW and Douglas Corporation pages from December 17, 2004.

If he does this fast and quietly, nothing should go wrong. No one should find anything out until Gordon brings it to light.

But it must be done quietly. Quickly.

Gordon moves around his desk and reaches for the door, careful to keep the papers close to his side. He pauses as his hand reaches the doorknob and the light outside wavers, but after a deep breath and a jerk on the handle, Gordon storms outside and begins walking.

He stops ten feet away from the door and suddenly freezes.

Most of the lights are off, and besides the one lamp on in his room, most of cubicle-world is frighteningly dim. In a far corner Gordon can see the soft glow of the copier, but besides that beyond his office the floor seems like a frightening place.

Only when the light flickers again does Gordon goad himself forward–though he is more careful this time, rolling his feet on the floor and keeping himself as silent as possible–and push towards the copier. A small sound stops him when he turns the corner, emanating from one of the cubicles near the heart of the room, and he stops, holding his breath.

Waiting.

Five seconds with his muscles frozen, nothing happens. Gordon reluctantly unlocks his knees and moves again. At the copier he shoots another glance around before pulling the lid up and sliding the first paper under. As the gentle shuffle and hiss begin to make themselves evident, Gordon stands awkwardly next to the machine and tries to see anything peculiar in the surrounding darkness. It all seems too still.

Something seems wrong.

Nevertheless, after three copies, six tense minutes and numerous glances around, that _something_ that seemed out of whack still hasn't happened. Gordon still is in one piece, his damning papers of evidence are still at his side and the light near his office is still fluttering frantically.

A small part of him is mildly disappointed. He doesn't know why–Gordon is, after all, a man of peace–but beyond relief there is that tiny bit of him that wishes that something _did _happen–that he actually got to chase away whatever evil being kept stalking.

That thought is the only thing that kept Gordon oblivious to his environment as he walks back to the office and packs up, opening his briefcase and delicately tucking the copied pages into a small compartment. It's not until Gordon glances at the clock and sees the time again (10:26) that he realizes that it's definitely time to get home.

Gordon reaches the door for the second time.

The light outside flickers once then–finally–dies.

_A sign from above, perhaps?_

His hand had been resting lightly on the knob, but now Gordon pulls completely off the handle and stops, ear perched next to the door while another hand slowly reaches towards his light switch and flicks it off. In the ensuing darkness, he waits.

The noise outside the door is faint–almost invisible–but Gordon's senses, heightened by fear and adrenaline, pick it up almost instantly.

Recognition.

Rage.

Dread.

Gordon knows who's outside now. He's been hoping that the bastard would never come back, and that he would never have to come back to his word of promised violence, but the situation's changed.

_The Subway Incident _is there, outside his room.

It's time to play.

Instinct comes back in a fury almost unrecognizable to Gordon, suddenly overwhelming him with a cold and dangerous calm. Over the frantic beating of his heart and fear clawing at his throat, it quietly settles itself into a comfortable position and begins the order of attack.

_Open the door and walk. _

Gordon's eyes adjusted faster to the darkness than he expected. He opens the door quietly at first–and then at instinct's pressure to be louder–slams the door when he turns around to lock it, allowing the sound to echo hollowly through the room. He doesn't question why.

He's only reacting, now.

Gordon makes his way through the dim halls until he reaches the elevator 'terminal'–the one place that actually is somewhat bright. He stops, considers.

_Can't wait here all day. Press 'down'. _

The down button is punched. Gordon fights the urge to look around him and instead bounces on his heels in boredom, puffing out his cheeks and idly staring at the doors.

Fighting panic.

The doors open. Gordon mechanically steps onto them, and without a moment's hesitation flicks at the 'doors close'. They slide shut just as he turns around to face the outside world.

He reaches mindlessly for the parking garage, but something stops him, and instead Gordon turns his thumb for the forty-third floor. The elevator pauses for a moment, evaluating the coordinates its been given, but then clicks, and the metal box slowly begins to descend a la metal cable. Slowly the floor numbers shrink, and from fifty-second and forty-nine Gordon finds himself in the world of forty-five, forty-four, and then the faithful forty-three.

Doors open again. Gordon takes a step out and then takes stock as to where he is.

Empty corridors, almost complete darkness.

_"Altec lost forty-third last week," Marty says to the side as they stand shoulder to shoulder in the elevator. _

_Gordon glances over. "Really?"_

_Sidlak nods. "Yeah. They moved out already and everything. It's a ghost floor, now."_

_Gordon frowns. "Creepy. Do they know who's gonna take over?"_

_Shake of the head. "No one as of yet. Don't know about a couple of months from now, but as of today it's abandoned."_

So that's why he's here.

_The stairs, _Instinct rasps, _you have to hurry. _

Still not challenging. Gordon looks around and–spotting the red **EXIT **sign–sprints to the metal fire door and (_hell, you can't hear through that, _a part of him scoffs) presses his ear against it. A part of him doubts that he'll be able to hear anything through it, but after a second of complete stillness and lack of breathing, Gordon realizes that he _can _hear.

Running. Someone bolting down the staircase as fast as they can go.

_The Subway Incident. _

_He's lost that ghost thing he had going, _Gordon–or some weird, unafraid being that's posing as him--reflects wryly. _Must REALLY be trying to get to me. _

Isn't he in for a surprise?

The footsteps become louder, more audible. Gordon glances down at the push bar resting near his stomach and braces himself near it. As one hand continues to stay plastered to the cold door, another reaches into a pocket and grabs for car keys. Gordon clenches them in his right hand tightly.

Closer now. The bravado that he had a moment ago vanishes, and Gordon struggles to swallow, closing his eyes as he tries to orient himself. Instinct has helped him so far. He only prays its plan works this time and nails the bastard right where Gordon wants him.

A thud from above.

_You have three seconds. _

Gordon counts down, biting his lip and opening his eyes as the noise becomes louder and louder and then finally...

_Now!_

Gordon slams against the push bar hard, shoving his arms outward and swinging the door out into the dimly lit stairwell.

There's a thump against the metal on the other side. No cursing. Gordon knows he's made contact but doesn't take any time to dwell on it, instead kicking out one last time at the door and swinging beyond it, briefcase held out in front of him like a shield. He sees black clothing in front of him and simply _moves_, slamming the case into the man's body and pushing.

The Subway Incident–though Gordon doesn't doubt is smart and dangerous as hell–wasn't fast enough to see the door when it slammed into him like a three-hundred pound defensive line, but he sees the briefcase flying at him and latches onto it, hands digging into the side. Gordon shoves again even though his briefcase is in the grip os a possible serial killer and suddenly realizes what he wants.

_The stairs. Push him towards the stairs. _

The deed is already done. Close to begin with to the edge of the stairwell, the Subway Incident lost his balance with Gordon's second shove, and now he arches his back wildly in an attempt to regain equilibrium.

No such luck. He falls, hands still held fast on the briefcase.

To which Gordon's body is attached.

_Shit. _

Gordon only hears an expulsion of breath as the Subway Incident's back hits the cement, but when his own body collapses down the stairs, Gordon curses audibly and instantly lets go of his case, trying to ward off the pain rising into his side and head. The case clatters down the stairs, but Gordon is oblivious as he lunges at the Subway Incident–whose body rolled to the next stairwell.

Subway Incident is ready this time. Pivoting faster than what Gordon deems natural, he ducks out of the way as Gordon flies down the staircase and raises a fist that connects solidly with Gordon's jaw.

Bones crack. Lightning explodes in Gordon's head. But he's not thinking now. Rage and self-preservation have seized up in him and presently all that resides in Gordon's head is that he has to _kill. _This man violated his privacy, his peace of mind, his _family_...he must die.

A roar. Gordon ducks his head down into his shoulders and rushes, slamming into the Subway Incident hard and throwing him into the corner of the stairwell. There's the sick sound of a body hitting hard concrete, but Gordon doesn't care. He lurches towards the fallen body–car key raised like a knife–and plunges downward.

The Subway Incident blocks it in a blurry of moves that make Gordon's head swim. Already dizzy and high on adrenaline, he stops trying to be quick and instead resorts to the one thing he knows he has more of than the smaller Subway Incident, and simply _pushes _down on the car keys, hoping to make them at least hit the man's neck or something–

"Stop." A voice says, strained and low. Gordon can't here it, can't make sense of what he's hearing but then he suddenly focuses and sees the face attached to the Subway Incident and then _oh, my God..._

"David?"

The car keys drop from Gordon's senseless hands.

David Webb stares hard at his brother from his position at the ground and tries to center his attention.

"Gordon?" he asks.

He blinks once, and then suddenly there's nothing.

David Webb collapses into darkness.


	23. BabySteps Backwards

He's had time to think about this.

Two hours, sitting, watching the body at the other side of the room (that damn body he dragged to an elevator, warding off the doors and dropping to the floor with a loud thump) and just wondering to himself, "how the fuck did it get there?"

It doesn't justify his behavior--he should be more worried, more frantic, more angry and just MORE something (besides peace)--but the plain truth is that if he panicked, it wouldn't do either of them any good.

Nonetheless, there is a part of Gordon that still can't rationalize what the analytical desk jockey is telling him.

David Timothy Webb is supposed to be very dead. He died twelve years ago as a flying, burning, shrieking spam-in-a-can diving from 31,000 feet into the sea.  
Gordon and his then-wife of two years went to the funeral just like everyone else.

They cried over his grave.

They told stupid stories about his childhood.

And yet here is he is, alive.

It doesn't make sense, and suddenly Gordon has a keen sense of déjà vu.

He's twelve-years-old and watching, open-mouthed, as an episode of the _Twlight Zone_ falls apart in front of his eyes, the surprise ending that he never expected ruining his hypothesis about what was happening.

He's fifteen-years-old, watching a stupid Hollywood 'thriller' where the woman being pursued by a freak discovers that the monster is, in fact, her long-lost sibling.

Movies and television have warped his sense of reality, and it irritates the shit out of Gordon. He has all these inane ideas about how his brother landed in his life but none of them are working and it's driving him nuts.

He wants answers.

Real ones.

But nothing's making sense.

_Did anything EVER make sense with him, anyway?_

Gordon pauses for a moment, considering this, and then suddenly stops, caught between believing what he's thinking and brushing it away.

He was told about David's condition right around the time he got into Cornell. It had been a deathbed confession of his father, wheezing and hooked countless machines that blinked and glared at him, waiting for his death rattle,

At the time--young, cocky, a little brash and a little (secretly) unsure--he laughed it off and told himself that Pops was high off the morphine they were pumping into his system day in and day out to ward off the impending death machine.

But after a while, it started making sense.

Gordon hadn't known David the first eight years of his life; the two had been separated after their births on order from a judge, who--at the time--had thought it fair that one boy lived with the mother, the other with the father.

It was a bad decision. One that bit David in the ass and left him with the psycho-bitch from hell. It was the reason that the boy was taken from his mother (drugged out, brained out and probably nothing but a shell of a human being) at the age of four, and it was the reason he became the kid that he was.

To call him "unstable" would be cruel and unfair; the kid lived with a shit-for-brains biological mother for four painful years before social service workers finally figured out, "hey, that woman's not fit to be a mother." They say you don't get memory, that the frontal lobe doesn't develop until you're two years old, but two years of memory are certainly enough to make a large imprint on any child.

Especially one that has been abused.

They didn't talk about what happened to Davie when he came to the house. Pops stuck the two boys together (David, standing awkwardly, his shoulders bent at a weird angle and his face sick-looking, Gordon, eight years old and peering at this new creature with unbound curiosity) and told his son pointedly:

"This is your brother David. Don't be a shit."

Shit was a bad word, but Gordon understood the message. Don't be a meanie, don't ask stupid questions, and--most importantly--don't _stare_. The kid was skinny as a skeleton and the look in his eyes was empty, like a hole with no ending, but he couldn't sit there and gawk at him.

It wouldn't do.

It wasn't nice.

So Gordon inched up closer to this skeleton of a boy, this small kid with frazzled brown hair and striking blue eyes and he stuck out a hand.

The kid didn't flinch. But his eye twitched.

"Hi," Gordon said, "my name's Gordon."

The kid didn't do much for a couple of minutes, only staring at the hand dully, but suddenly something happened (like a change in his eyes, his spirit, maybe even his body), and he abruptly reached and grasped the hand that Gordon still continued to hold out.

He shook it. Strongly.

But he still didn't say anything.

Gordon was strangely okay with that. Sure, it was a little odd to find himself face-to-face with a mute--he was a very talkative, inquisitive boy--but he was content with the fact that the kid even shook his hand. He didn't act entirely like a ghost or weirdo, and to Gordon that was some progress.

Their relationship grew after that. The first few months were difficult, but Gordon learned quickly that his brother wasn't some freak of nature or anything like that.

He was just a little bit different, a little bit...quirky.

He acted normal around the family, proving to be strong, capable and incredibly intelligent. There was a very dry sense of humor kept in the kid, an old soul stuck in a young body, but he was just a child all the same, sometimes giggling at silly Disney movies and laughing when Pops tickled him.

Sometimes, though, at school...Gordon would hear things.

Things about tussles.

About David (quiet, modest David, who was gentle around the house and around the pets and didn't provoke or act aggressively around anyone) getting into a fist-fight.

And winning.

That was the shocker for Gordon. Getting in fights were surprising to him, yes, but the very fact that David _won_ these showdowns--the fact that this little scrawny boy could fight like a maniac--was more shocking to him than anything else.

It wasn't in David's _personality. _It wasn't who he was.

David would talk his way out of fight. He'd outwit his opponent.

The kid that stood in the ring of school kids, listening to their chanting and leering, simply beat the shit out of the guy he was fighting against (sometimes to the point of unconsciousness) and then walked off, never speaking a word.

Clearly there was a gap between the David Gordon saw at home and the David Gordon heard about at school.

One was funny, intelligent and quiet and the other was cold and calculating. Not cruel, but he'd do what he'd have to do to get the job done.

High school came around, and though there were no fights then, no Davids coming home with bruised eyes or busted lips, sometimes the scholar (because that's what David was--the brains while his brother was the brawns) acted oddly, and Gordon didn't understand why.

Until, you know, his father's deathbed confession.

Which happened to fall right on the day that Gordon would lose David in a fiery airplane crash over the Atlantic.

_So that's it? That's your explanation for your brother's reappearance?_

Gordon periodically believes in coincidence, but more and more (as this entire thing starts crashing down on his head, with work, home and suddenly his brother) he's beginning to think differently.

They're all connected, all together.

But he doesn't know...exactly...how.

Something pulls the big brother out of his reverie, maybe a motion or sound from across the room, but abruptly Gordon's attention is focused entirely on his brother.

He doesn't know why. The kid's been asleep forever. It's not like he's going to suddenly get u--

_His eyelids are moving, _that thing at the back of his head tells him, _and his breathing's changed. He's up. _

Gordon blinks, stares closer at the face across the room that seems sharper and more dangerous than what David used to be and then he sees it.

To say he's afraid is an understatement.

To say he's scared shitless might be a better.

A long dead sibling, one who attacked him in the stairwell of his office, one that he hasn't seen in over twelve years, is awake.

Gordon says the first thing that comes to him. The only thing that has been weighing on his mind for the past two hours.

"You're supposed to be dead," he says.

* * *

**A/N: **I rewrote the chapter because the refreshingly honest reviews from **G.A. Clive, BalrogsBreath** and **gostlcards** compelled me to. I like it better, now, and think it makes more sense, but what do you guys think? 


	24. Requiem for a Dream

**H**e feels strange.

As if he has been sleeping for a very, very, very long time.

Of course, the feeling isn't new and he is bound to experience it again, but at the current moment in time, David Webb feels as if he has just awakened from a deep slumber.

To say the least, he is confused.

To say the most, a quiet part of him recognizes this from a long, long time ago and tells him that he's in for a shock.

The voice that prods at his closed eyes assures him that such an undesired emotion is mutual.

"You're supposed to be dead," it states simply. David frowns, considering this for a moment, then opens his eyes.

He's in an office, propped up against the wall with a shoulder nestled between a tall tree-like plant and a filing cabinet.

Across from him, seated also on the floor, sits Gordon Webb, green eyes trying to remain impassive yet failing as they stare at him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. The two regard each other for a long moment, and then David opens his mouth.

"How?"

Gordon's shoulders lift in a shrug. "Plane crash. We were told you blew up over the Atlantic in a private jet liner."

David nods slowly for a moment, considering. "You went to my funeral, then."

Gordon's jaw tightens. "Yeah. I did."

David blinks. "Was it nice?"

Gordon looks as though he wishes to say yes, but something stops him and instead he narrows his eyes, jutting his head forward and stiffening his shoulders.

"Who are you?" he finally asks.

"I'm David Webb."

"No," Gordon laughs dryly, motioning with a curt nod towards the door, "you're not. The bastard I was facing in the stairwell was a lot meaner and smarter than you."

David racks his brain for an answer, searching for the most logical explanation for what his brother may have seen, but stops.

He doesn't remember the stairwell.

He doesn't remember this building.

And he doesn't remember why he's here.

...like waking from a deep sleep indeed.

David can't think of a witty comeback, but the next best thing comes to him.

"I don't know what to say."

"Seems like it," Gordon says, voice wry.

The two sit in uncomfortable silence. Finally, Gordon clears his throat. David, who had been pivoting his head and figure out where he was, looks over immediately.

"You've been dead for ten–almost eleven--years, David." Gordon says quietly. "I saw your casket go six feet under September 19, 1995 and never questioned that you were dead. Hell," the jaw clenches again, "I accepted it as reality."

David feels it then–a slight pain near his eye and a dull twitch in his side. He brings a hand up to touch the skin underneath his eye, then–as nerve endings respond angrily to the prodding–puts his hand back down.

Gordon smiles thinly.

"Yeah. You don't feel it now but you'll feel it tomorrow."

Webb cocks his head and worry flickers across his features. He looks up at Gordon, assessing the tired and frazzled look on his face as well as the livid swelling at the lower part of his jaw.

He frowns.

"Did I punch you?"

The brother raises an eyebrow. "You?"

Pause.

"No. The guy on the stairwell did most of the damage."

The younger sibling narrows his eyes."You mean me."

Gordon shakes his head. "No," he says, voice serious, "Not you."

The two stare at each other again, long and hard. It's David who finally backs down, turning his gaze away and shaking his head slightly.

"This sounds like something out of those old thrillers we used to watch–the really lame ones." David looks up at Gordon and raises an eyebrow. "You remember them?"

Gordon smiles, nodding. "Every one of them. They were good."

More silence. David finally swallows and when he looks back up at his brother, the humor is gone, replaced by something resembling a familiar fear.

"What year is it?" he asks wearily.

"2004."

"Where?"

"New York City."

"Time?"

Gordon gives him an agitated look and points to his wrist.

David glances down, notices the nice Timex.

"Oh."

"Do you know what I'm going to ask you?" Gordon's voice is calm, almost placid.

He wants to say no but he already knows what's coming.

"Yes."

"Do want me to ask it anyway?"

David stares up from the ground at his older brother and shrugs.

"You're going to ask it whether I like it or not," he states frankly. "Might as well get it over with now."

Gordon nods at this, considering for a moment, and then clears his throat.

"How long have you had the multiple personality thing?"

David doesn't bother looking surprised. Instead, he tries to figure out an answer.

Film reels with missing scenes and blacked-out screens serve as memory and time to him, and to be entirely honest he doesn't really know where this started and ended. .

But he is mildly curious as to how Gordon figured this all out. The boy always was the detective of the family–solving puzzles before everyone else did. By the time David moved in, he realized that fact rather quickly.

"How did you figure this out?" David responds after a moment.

The older brother blinks slowly, crossing his arms over his chest as he shakes his head. "I asked you first."

David stares levelly at Gordon. "You know I don't know the answer."

Gordon nods. "You're right."

"So why ask?"

"I was curious," Gordon says, then winces at how lame his statement sounds. He elaborates. "Cindy was a shrink. She figured everything out before things went south."

Cindy. More recognition comes to the surface, and with the name comes the words (not the picture) _stepmother._

"And the rest?" some part of David feels violated, used.

Gordon watches his brother carefully. "Dad. He told us about Sarah."

Sarah. The name dimly rings a bell but nothing beyond that.

Gordon notices the blank stare, speaks again.

"Our mother, David."

Something shifts at the back of David's skull, and indistinctly he realizes that it's one of _them_, waiting for the opportunity to take back the driver's seat. The time with Mommy (again, something he recalls as being told about but nothing beyond that) is its memories, and it wants them back.

No. He doesn't know how long it's been since he was able to be himself again. He will fight to keep himself here if he has to.

"–Christ, you're a mess, aren't you?"

David blinks, confused. "What?"

Gordon is back on the ground, now, sitting up against the desk with his legs crossed as he watches his brother. He waits a beat before speaking.

"I keep trying to figure out why you're here," he says. "But continue to be clueless."

"What, and I understand all this?" David's voice rings in the office, and he abruptly stands, ignoring the blood rushing to his head.

"I don't know where we are," he snaps, beginning to pace, "and I don't know what I'm doing here. If there's anyone who should be pissed off, it's me."

The somethings in the back of David's head move again, their movements more obvious. They want in.

David tries to continue, searching for fuel to his fire.

The brother, unmoved and unperturbed by his brother's sudden appearance will certainly be enough.

"And why aren't you freaked out?" he clips, angry.

Gordon closes his eyes slowly before opening them.

"I've had a couple of hours to work my way through this, two of which included dragging your heavy ass up to this office and reasoning whether or not I should call the police" he says calmly, looking upward in interest. "And kids."

That stops David in his tracks.

"Kids?"

Gordon nods, pride apparent even though he doesn't smile.

"Three," he says voice wry. "They teach you patience."

David wants to keep fighting but can't do it.

"Names?"

Gordon smiles thinly, noting the change in mood.

"Lily, Jacob and Adrian."

"Ages?"

The smile grows.

"Nine, twenty-one and fifteen."

"College?"

Gordon cocks his head to the side, eyes twinkling.

"You sure are asking a lot of questions about my brats, David."

David opens his mouth to retaliate, but then stops, snapping his jaw shut.

He's been duped, distracted by his brother's talk of his kids. Gone from the world for god-knows-how-long, his brother gets him off track by giving him a brief look into what happened when he was absent.

Ugh. Siblings.

Anger tries to come back, but it's too late. Moved onto a back burner, the rage he felt has quietly simmered down into mild disapproval.

The plain sad truth is that he's more confused right now than anything else.

And Gordon probably realizes this.

Trying to stray away from their earlier conversation, David seeks yet another distraction. Clearing his throat, he walks around Gordon and over to his desk, knees against the chair, and begins to glance over his brother's work.

Numbers, acronyms and dollar signs...it's all Greek to him.

But then something catches his eye.

_ILW. _

The things at the back of David's skull jump, and suddenly words come unbidden from his mouth.

"What are these?" he asks, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

There's a shuffling noise from in front of the desk. Gordon's half-bald skull suddenly becomes his face, and then his neck and red tie.

"Huh?"

_ILW. _

"These," David says, pointing at the papers. "What are these?"

Something has changed. Gordon notices that his brother's face has become dangerously still and devoid of color. The eyes, too, have lost the familiarity they held a second ago.

_It's not David, _a voice at the back of his head whispers even as the nape of his neck prickles and he feels his spine tingle.

It's like an episode of the _Twilight Zone_. If Gordon were a smart man, he'd slowly start to back away.

But the penetrating stare from the man across the table compels him to speak, anyway.

"Transaction reports," Gordon starts, then carefully–"David, are you okay?"

The man blinks, shakes his head.

"My name is Jason." he says.

Yeah. Twilight fricken' Zone indeed.


	25. Past Curfew

**A/N:** I just saw _Ultimatum_ yesterday, and while I'm pleased the trilogy is wrapped up and everything, I feel that they...I dunno, there was too much action and not enough depth. I loved _Supremacy_ because Greengrass created the perfect balance between action and drama. Here, though, it was more like "QUICK, let's go to Morocco!" and then "QUICK let's go to Paris!" than anything else. 

Don't get me wrong, of course--the film was bad-ass and the fight scenes were very cool (book vs. candlestick, book wins which means reading can help you defeat kung-fu masters), and I absolutely adored the interaction between Bourne and the leading cast of Landy, Cronin, Nicky, Noah What's-his-face and the others, but something was missing. It didn't feel complete. Nice ending (yay for surviving a great fall and swimming away to live about it!) but something is still...holey.

I'll love the trilogy, but this last film was more action than drama. Just a head's up.

Anyhoo, when it comes to MY story...

I was going to wrap this up in just a few chapters but looking back and reading over it I'm realizing that I need more action, more suspense and more character ties. I've only introduced our new hitman maybe three times, poor Landy has only been here once and everyone just kind of fell off the map. Loose ends need to be wrapped up, if you know what I mean.

What this means to you, dear reader, is that I need suggestions as to how to push this out beyond, you know, three or four more chapters. Any advice would be greatly and highly appreciated, so feel free to cough it up.

And thanks yet again to my lovely, fantastic readers. To **G.A. Clives**, **ThTornado**, **Alymra**, **Rei Tamashii,** and **BalrogsBreath**--thank you so much for your reviews and your advice. It makes writing this a helluva lot easier and fun.

Okay, here's a filler chapter. Give me your crit. Pile it on a platter with my head, if you want to.

Voila!

* * *

When he slips through the front door at 1:14 AM, careful to make sure the lock doesn't thud when he closes the door behind him, he expects darkness and an apartment that's sleeping.

What he gets is the click of a lamp (he freezes at the click, expecting a gun and thinking to himself _jesus, Jason [David was WRONG_) and a wife sitting on the couch, staring at him.

Legs crossed and arms folded.

Gordon is no mind-reader, but he knows the signs. Every husband (every human being, for that matter) does.

Exhibit A: Unblinking, clear eyes.

This signifies rage and suspicion.

Exhibit B: Folded arms, crossed legs.

Defensive position–don't piss me off. I'm looking for a fight.

The two stare at each other for a long moment, caught in a Mexican stand-off, before Maris blinks.

Slowly.

"Where have you been?" she asks.

Gordon clears his throat.

_Finding my long-dead brother. _

_Finding out I'm going to be used as bait. _

_Finding out I'm a liability._

_Nothing, honey._

"Work."

The arms tense, the eyebrows raise. Gordon wonders vaguely if Jason (_David! _his mind tries to yell at him, _it's David now!) _and Maris have met before, maybe exchanging interrogation techniques and how-to-scare-people-shitless manuals, but then he remembers something odd, something that Jason _(David! _his mind screams, and he tells it to shut up) told him as he tried to give Gordon a watered-down summary of what was happening to the poor man of thirty-seven.

_"You mentioned a wife," Jason says, raising his eyes from one of the files and staring at Gordon calmly. "Are you sure you are willing to go through this for her?"_

_Gordon considers this for a moment, flinching as he recalls the fear he felt in the subway and the dread he feels now, knowing what Jason Bourne has in store to get him and his family out of this alive. _

_"Yes."_

_Bourne blinks. _

_It's an odd gesture–one that Gordon grasps that David used to do when he was thinking through his words carefully and trying to speak as succinctly as possible_–_and for a second he hopes that David is back, and this frightening shadow that masquerades as him has disappeared. _

_But then the voice comes back. The quiet, low monotone that says more without emotion than it would with it. _

_"She can't know I exist. You understand? She can't know that I'm alive, and she can't know what's going on." Bourne leans forward in the chair, eyes intense, as he continues. "You're alone, now," he says, emphasizing each word carefully. "This is something no one in your family can know about. You tell them, they die."_

_Gordon nods slowly, though he feels his hands shaking in his lap. _

_It's eerie; he sees David in front of him but the man isn't talking like David and it's disturbing. Everything is or isn't a liability, everything can or cannot have the probability of killing him. It's so black and white. So frighteningly simple. _

_Some part of Gordon wonders, then: _What the hell did they do to you? _but instead he only opens his mouth and asks, "What do I have to do?"_

_Jason winces, showing something that Gordon connects to his brother, and breathes in deep through his nose. _

_"You're going to have to trust me," he says after a long moment. "Can you do that?"_

_There are a variety of answers to that question, Gordon realizes, but unfortunately he's probably going to have to say yes, even if he isn't quite...sure...what's going on. _

_So he nods. _

_Bourne's shoulders slump slightly (again, a David movement of relief but now seemingly mimicked by a shadow playing on the wall) and he motions for Gordon to get up. _

_"Let's go to your car," he says. "I'll tell you what we're going to do along the way."_

"Are you fucking some woman, Gordon?"

Gordon's eyelids flutter as he tries to pull himself back and abruptly he realizes that Maris is glaring at him with a look that should be able to crack stone.

And she's asking the question that–if answered incorrectly–has the power to break the marriage in seconds.

Fortunately, Gordon has not been out with a woman, cheating on his wife.

Unfortunately, however, he _is _involved in something that sounds like it's out of an old Ludlum novel. And there's a high chance his ass might get fried.

Personally he thinks that cheating might not be nearly as bad as him dying, but the look in Maris' eyes almost makes him rethink that.

But he has an excuse. So that's good.

_"Your wife?"_

_Webb looks over at Bourne across the elevator. "What about her?"_

_"You ran into an old college buddy you hadn't seen in years," Jason says, and something that barely resembles amusement flickers on his face, "and you went out to have a couple of drinks. Time flew by and before you knew it, it was–" he glances at the watch on his wrist "–almost one in the morning." He glances up at Gordon and abruptly grins. The effect is shocking, turning off the scary-super-assassin switch and making Jason look like...David. _

_"You're going to apologize sincerely, and act convincingly."_

_Gordon only stares at Bourne, dumbfounded. _

_His voice finally comes back. "How did you know tha–"_

_"–she'll be bent out of shape about your late arrival?" Jason shrugs (a frighteningly human movement), and then that grin vanishes. "You called her around ten-fifteen. It's twelve-thirty now."_

_Webb won't ask how Bourne knows when he called his wife–it's a waste of air to even raise the question. Instead he tries to move the attention to patching up an alibi._

_"My wife went to school with me," Gordon says after a minute. Jason looks over at him with mild interest and Gordon continues. "She'll know whether or not I actually saw someone. Hell," and then he gives a dry snort, "she'll probably call them."_

_No snide comment on Bourne's side. Rather, he blinks as an acknowledgment of this fact and waits patiently for Webb to continue his musings. _

_It's terrifying to think that someone is human when their sense of humor is so dark and so hidden that it's barely even a distinguishable blob on the personality radar. The man grins when he tells Webb he'll have to apologize to his wife but suddenly becomes dead-serious when Gordon mentions the naggy-spouse predicament that most married men suffer from. It's supposed to be a joke, an invitation for a light deprecating jab at someone. _

_But Bourne doesn't take it. _

Something is wrong with you, _Gordon thinks quietly to himself. _You're not human.

_"I doubt," Jason suddenly says, "that you introduced Maris to _everyone _you met in college."_

_Scary, but true. And both of them know that. _

_So then Webb plows on, trying to find something else they'll need to focus on besides tomorrow. Besides what he's going to have to do tomorrow to ensure his family's safety and his–if that's possible. _

_But nothing comes to mind. _

_Bourne looks faintly amused but says nothing. He looks up at the floors and then abruptly the amusement vanishes. Shoving his hands into his jacket, he feels around for something and then jabs forward, presses the emergency stop button. _

_"What's going on?" Gordon's grateful his voice doesn't give out and he sounds somewhat composed. _

_"Do you know how to fire a gun?" Jason asks him, looking through his pockets and then suddenly swinging his backpack around as he goes into a crouch. _

_"Um..."_

_Jason extracts the woman's (what was her name? Hailey Pike?) Colt and rests it gently on the carpet floor before shooting Gordon an irritated look at his response. _

_"Didn't that teach you that as a kid or something?" The question is tinged with mild contempt and exasperation. _

_Gordon responds accordingly. _

_"I was twelve-years old at a YMCA camp, for Christ's sake," he snarls. _

_"So that means you shot a .22." Matter-of-fact, straight to the point. Bourne still hasn't look up from his rummaging and is now burrowing for something more._

_"Yeah."_

_Jason looks up fully, now, eyes serious. "That's gonna have to work."_

_He rises, zipping up the backpack and picking up the Colt before handing it over to Gordon. _

_Gordon reluctantly reaches forward to take it and then, suddenly, Jason stops him, motioning for him to watch. _

_"This is a good gun," Jason says, "Good accuracy, enough caliber to stop someone and not as loud as other models." He points towards various parts of the gun, continuing. "This is the safety–" he thumbs it to the left for locked and right for unlocked to demonstrate–"and this is the magazine release."_

_Another flick. The magazine clatters to the floor. Bourne ignores the drop and moves on. _

_"You're not going to worry about the magazine," he says frankly, looking up from the gun to stare at Webb, "because you hopefully won't have to fire anything. The magazine's full, giving you about eight shots with one in the barrel. Use them wisely."_

_It's now that he stoops down and picks up the magazine, sliding it back into the gun with an audible click. _

_"To aim," and Bourne goes up into the Weaver stance, "line up your front and rear sights, breathe in to steady your shot and fire." He drops back down and moves to hand Gordon the gun. _

_Gordon takes the gun slowly, nervously putting the firearm into a pocket. _

_Jason continues speaking as Gordon puts the Colt into his pocket."It's a good weapon that should keep you safe in the event that anything happens before it's supposed to," he says, and then the eyes go flat, dead and cold, "but that doesn't mean it's going to save you."_

_Gordon freezes and the two stare at each other. _

_ "Be smart," Bourne says. "Don't fuck things up."_

_Silence. _

_Jason punches the emergency-stop again, and then they're moving, going down. He reaches into a pocket, comes out with a cell-phone and tosses it at Gordon. _

_Reflexes Gordon doesn't know he has startle. He snatches at the phone and looks questioningly at Bourne. _

_"It's likely," Jason says, "that your phones are tapped. This is going to be your communication with me. I'll call you if anything comes up."_

_Words worm themselves up Gordon's throat before he knows what's happening. _

_"And can I call you?"_

_Bourne blinks, seemingly put off-balance by the question, and then shakes his head. _

_"No. I'll be close enough that you shouldn't have to." Suddenly he turns and punches at the second floor button. Again, Gordon looks at him, alarmed. _

_"What now?"_

_Jason glances back from the doors. _

_"You're going to have to leave this elevator alone. I don't exist, remember?"_

_Fear–which had been staying quiet for a while–fights back up in an almost sputtered reply: "what, so I have to go out there alone?"_

_Bourne nods. "I'll be behind you, but you have to act like nothing is wrong." _

_The doors slide open and Bourne slips out. He turns. _

_"Count ten Mississippi before closing the doors and moving to your floor. I should be there."_

_Gordon looks away at the floor panel and then turns back. _

_But Bourne is gone. _

"No," Gordon says, and he's relieved to say that with a straight face (because it is, after all, the truth).

Maris shifts only slightly, but Gordon knows he's passed the first test; his voice didn't waver, his eyes didn't startle, and he sounded like he was telling the truth.

But that was only the first test.

"Why weren't you home at eleven?"

Next excuse, this time true, too.

"Something came up."

Maris' eyes harden again–flint solidified in the cornea.

"Care to elaborate?"

_..act convincingly._

He doesn't know where they come from, these acting skills, but suddenly Gordontenses up his shoulders and begins transferring weight from one foot to the other.

They are actions that signify anxiety...guilt.

Now just find a decent excuse.

"I, uh..." he runs a hand through his thinning hair, "I saw an old friend from college. We bumped into each other as I was walking out of the buil–"

Maris' impassive stare chills him, and Bourne's words coming flooding back in a rush. _"This is something no one in your family can know about. You tell them, they die."_

He has to pull this off, has to make it convincing. For their lives and his own.

"Oh, shit, Maris," he says, and suddenly the lie he knows had been lying motionless on the carpet--dead--is breathing, slowly rising to its feet. "We went out to get drinks and I just..." his voice breaks, and the liar in him smiles, pleased, "I just lost track of time."

Maris glares at him but the flint has melted down into lava.

Sure, it's not exactly better but it's change–he has to run with it.

"I'm...I'm so sorry." he takes a step forward, hands held out in a placating gesture. "With work and everything and then seeing an old friend..."

Pause. "I made a mistake, honey." Gordon looks at his wife with the widest, saddest eyes he can put on and a look to his jaw that _has _to make his guilt palpable. "I'm–I'm sorry."

She stares at him a moment longer, eyes sharp but shoulders more relaxed.

"You didn't kill anyone, did you?"

It's an odd question, but the smart part of Gordon recognizes it as humor.

He shakes his head, trying not to smile. "No."

"And you didn't whore yourself out to any women, maybe go for a little prostitute shopping?"

He shakes his head again.

"Hmm," is Maris' only response to the shaking of her husband's head. For a long moment she sits, biting the inside of her cheek, before clearing her throat and standing. Eyes still angry (though they're softer than before) and chin held high, she blinks once before speaking. .

"You're sleeping on the couch tonight," Maris says quietly. She makes a move towards him then stops, considering.

"I don't know what's gotten into you." she murmurs. "I don't know what's going on, but I hope you get a handle on it." One more confused, sad look at her husband, and then Maris is off, striding down the dark hallway in her robe and slippers.

Gordon waits to hear the click of the bedroom door as she shuts it behind her.

And then he sighs heavily and staggers over to the couch.

Gordon turns off the light and lays down.

But he doesn't sleep.

He doesn't know if he can.


	26. There is a Man

There is a floor. In a building.

We do not know where this building is, do not know its specific location, time, or place, but we know that there is a floor. In a building.

On this floor is a room.

It is a nice room – there is a beautiful view of whatever city (we do not know specifically) lies below it, and shining skyscrapers brag from every edge of the rounded glass.

The blinds are almost always kept open. The occupant of this room sees no reason to have it otherwise – this high up, it is highly improbable anyone could see what could be happening – and so the windows are usually kept beautifully clean and open to the world.

Sometimes, though, the blinds are shut.

This is when the occupant believes that something should very well be kept within the confines of the room. Period.

Today the sun is beaming through the clouds and tearing its way into the glass without a second's pause. Rays glance off the beautiful (illegal) mahogany desk, showing a gleaming nameplate and various assortments of photographs, pens and neatly folded, stacked and ordered manila folders and papers.

There is a tall leather chair. It is quite comfortable, forbidding shadow and looming back aside, and the occupant of the room loves the chair dearly. It has been in the room for over twenty years.

In this chair sits a man.

His face is not shrouded in shadow, not hidden or veiled behind a sinister backdrop or insignia.

He is not ordinary looking, but he is, by no means, a frightening or imposing man. He is of average height and average build, with a rounded face and thinning hairline. His lips are slightly disproportionate with his face and his nose is narrow, but there is nothing frightening about him.

Except maybe the eyes. By his birth certificate and license (which no one has or ever will see) they are a light gray, but in his office, they are flinty, hard pieces of shale. Unbreakable. Unbending.

The eyes are merciless. There is no ending. And there is no beginning. The eyes see through whatever they are examining and know instantaneously what is going on. They sense lies, and they know truth.

Everything is normal about this man's appearance except his eyes.

And he knows this.

Inside this office, on his cell phone and within the safe that resides below his feet, he is known as the Trackman.

We do not know him by any other name and –perhaps– this is our one saving grace.

But that is irrelevant.

This morning, the Trackman is intently focused on a phone call. The pen ($200 fountain pen, courtesy of Four Seasons: New York) clutched tightly in his hand is the only clear way of determining that he is in an uneasy –if frustrated mood.

He listens to this phone call carefully, writing down on a notepad with nearly whisper-like accents.

If someone where to look over his shoulder (which no one would ever do, not if they wanted to see another day), they would glance at the writing and realize quickly that its not in any discernable language that most humans speak.

It is in code.

And it is in code that only the Trackman knows.

The Trackman listens to whoever is on the line carefully and asks curt questions every few moments to clarify whatever he does not understand.

He is speaking Russian.

Finally, the conversation ends. The Trackman gently puts the phone back down on the receiver, and carefully takes the paper he was writing on to a locked drawer in his desk. The slip goes beneath the obvious junk, slipped into the secret compartment below.

And then the Trackman locks the drawer, swiping his thumb over the scanner and making sure the compartment closes with a click.

The phone rings again.

The Trackman pauses, glances at it as though he is not expecting a call this early, and then quickly lifts up the phone.

He speaks in English.

Because that is (supposed to be) his native language.

"Jonathan Lansing speaking."

And on the other side of the line.

"Hi, Mr. Lansing?"

"Yes?" He responds, careful.

"This is Pamela Landy."

The Trackman stiffens because he has heard this name before and knows that it brings bad luggage with it.

But the Trackman keeps his cool.

"Hi, Pam," he replies. "How can I help you?"

* * *

**A/N: **My goodness!! The plot thickens:O

Now my question to you is this: did I pull this curtain up too early?

Many, many thanks to all readers and the reviewers** G.A. Clive, Gostlcards, rebelsoccer, ClaMIA! **and **lazaefare. **

Now, to **lazaefare **specifically:

You absolutely made my day with your list review and your knowledge of the books. It's been a while since someone has mentioned Mo or Sir Alex they way they used to be mentioned, and it got me thinking.

To make this into a full novel would be completely a blast and--now that I have these specific names and questions from you as to where to continue--I know I can do it. You asked who Lansing was, I thought we'd pull that out immeadiately and move from there, see what the reaction is.

To everyone: thank you for your enthusiasm. I beam whenever I get reviews but now I skip because each and every one of your comments on my stuff makes me want to write and write and write _ad nauseum_ (without the boredom and everything...).

Enjoy. Tell me what you think.


	27. HUB and the Leak

They had been exchanging tense emails and brief telephone calls since Tuesday night at 11:37 eastern time, but when Pamela Landy called Berlin supervisor Teddy Kaplan on Friday morning (approximately two days after her conversation with Jason Bourne), she tentatively expected the worst.

And Teddy gave it to her.

"How bad is it?" she asked him after they exchanged pleasantries.

In the background Pam could hear the sound of quiet conversation and rapid keyboard typing. The techies were working their asses off, and Teddy himself sounded mildly flustered.

"Bad, Pam," Teddy said. He never was one for mincing words, and he didn't even bother here.

Pamela paused for a minute, pen poised over her notepad and eyes alarmed. Tom was peering in from outside her office and wordlessly, she motioned him in.

Teddy continued from the other side of the line, elaborating.

"Surveillance spotted three men circling Safehouses Three and Seven last night, and today they've been trying to find out where the main HUB is."

"Any luck with KGB puppets?" Tom was pointing towards the speaker-phone button with a raised eyebrow and Pam nodded her consent.

Teddy's response filled the room.

"Not yet. The man who told us we had a leak on Tuesday is gone."

Tom cursed under his breath. Pam's brow furrowed.

"Why wasn't he put under SE-210?" Pamela asked.

Safehouse protection was priceless. But it also could be dangerous if discovered.

Teddy told her: "The guy ran into Mo Panov–"

"Who?" The name sounded vaguely familiar to Pam and from across the desk Tom's eyes flickered in recognition.

Teddy paused. "Mo Panov worked logistics at Langley for a while, but he's proved invaluable in rounding up assets through Berlin. Speaks German, Russian and English fluently, majored in psychology."

"...and?"

"He tried to persuade the man who told us of Alamonov to come with us but the guy fled."

She didn't bother asking stupid, obvious questions like 'why didn't he give chase?' or 'why haven't I heard this information?' because chances were that they were still trying to clear up the muck.

And then the face flashed in Pam's mind and she remembered.

Panov. Razor-sharp, polite (Pam was told he had a very wry sense of humor, very talkative, but hadn't experienced it in her introduction), tall with a long, gangly gait. He stuck out like a sore thumb in some crowds (super-spy or assassin he was not) but he knew how to defend and attack and was aware of Eyes and Ears protocol.

By no means a stupid man. By no means a fool.

But his prey was quick. Perhaps quicker than the athletic ex-sprinter himself. Panov was likely outrun and outwitted by a man who feared for his safety so much he wouldn't even go to the most verifiable protection-net there – CIA SE-200's in Berlin. Self-preservation makes men and women alike very dangerous and very unpredictable - no doubt this was the case.

The KGB was still notorious for cruelty; the man gave Panov information that was likely needed and then ran for his own life.

It wasn't the Cold War, but sometimes it sure as hell felt like it to Pam.

She brought a hand to her forehead, rested her elbow on the desk.

"Can we get communication lines to the sector chief?" Tom discussed sectors with Teddy on Tuesday (the report had turned up on her desk Wednesday) as they tried to figure out who they could wave the white flag to, but everything was turning up blank. Tom informed Pam of this nervously after the report and handed her an apple – breakfast -- as an apology.

"We're trying," Teddy said. "I have four mobiles out looking for KGB taps–"A beat as one of the techies shouted to Teddy "–but it's going to take a while."

Pam opened her mouth to speak again, but Teddy interrupted her. "Hey, Pam, hold that thought really fast, okay?"

A hand went up to the receiver to cover the line, essentially muting them both, and from the NYC side of the conversation the room went silent.

They waited, Tom drumming his fingers on the armrest and Pam frowning and chewing the inside of her cheek.

Teddy came back on the line, sounding both combination of relieved and anxious.

"Okay, good news," he said, clearing his throat. "We couldn't get a KGB tap but we found a CIA man who can do it for us."

Tom and Pam stared at each other, the message wordless but very clear.

It was Tom who asked the question.

"Bad news?"

Teddy paused. "They've found HUB."

Tom swore–"shit"– and rose from his chair, coming over to the desk and bracing against it.

Pam remained still and focused on the phone.

"How many are there, Teddy?"

"It's a team of four," he replied, "and though security is in place to keep them out, I don't know how long we can remain holed up here before they storm up."

Pam shook her head.

"No. They won't do that. Not without legitimate justification." A pause. "Who's the CIA tap?"

They heard the click of fingers as Teddy motioned to a techie to hand him the number, and then: "Jonathan Lansing."

_Lansing. _Like before, Pam was hit by a sense of familiarity. But she didn't know where it was coming from.

"Where is he stationed?"

Teddy waited a moment (Pam had a feeling he was looking over one of the techie's shoulders) and then spoke, with more caution than before. "It isn't specified. We need a PNI-37 clearance for his location."

Again, Pam and Tom exchanged looks.

They'd been in the clearance neighborhood before, and it hadn't gotten them anywhere good.

Nonetheless...maybe location was irrelevant. They simply needed a messenger to relay peace between the men outside Pamela Landy's most revered station and her techies and agents inside. Keep everyone calm

Because the reality was that Pam didn't want to lose this; she'd spent more than seven years building up Berlin, and she wasn't going to let it all go into flames, shreds and smoke because someone got a little trigger happy and decided to storm a main HUB.

That would cause madness, and at this point, so shortly after her encounter with Bourne (a part of her whispered _Stockholm _and Pam shushed it), she wasn't ready for that.

She needed stability. _Berlin_ needed stability.

"Give me the connection," Pam said.

Ten minutes later, Tom and Pam were back where they started, seated nervously in their chairs with fixed stares on the telephone. Tom was drumming his fingers on the armrest again, and Pam was chewing the inside of her cheek.

Habit. This was all become routine to them and Pam absolutely hated it.

Two rings and then, quickly, the phone was picked up.

"Jonathan Lansing speaking," a voice said.

Tom froze, eyes still with something resembling surprise and Pam shot him a glance while she continued.

"Hi, Mr. Lansing?"

"Yes?"

Pam was hit by a sense of foreboding as it occurred to her that the man she was speaking to had no accent and that his question was tinged with wariness, but she swept the observation away, focusing.

They didn't have time for her to get paranoid. Her people were holed up in a building that had countless secrets locked away in it.

"This is Pamela Landy."

Pause. Cautious pause. Tom blinked, the surprise abruptly gone, and shot a quick look up to Pam.

Jonathan Lansing came back on the line, sounded cool and collected.

"Hi, Pam," he said (and Pam cringed because only people she worked with had the right to call her that). "How can I help you?"

Deja vu. Pam had this conversation once before and it sent her on a wild goose chase.

_This isn't Stockholm_, she told herself as a mantra. _This isn't Stockholm. _

"I need your help relaying a message," Pam forced herself to stay, "KGB Sectors in Berlin."

Another pause, longer than before, and then Jonathan Lansing cleared his throat.

"Who gave you this connection?" he asked.

* * *

**A/N: ** Okay. I have some 'splainin' to do: 

**1: **Past/Present Tense--If you guys have noticed, I've bounced from past to present tense throughout this story. Believe it or not, this actually is on purpose. When characters are in the same place around the same time, I usually stick the story in present tense. When they're in different areas at different times, past tense is what I go with.

Usually. Other times it's just easier to write in present tense, so...

**2: **I need to make a timeline. If not for you guys, then for myself. I'm not quite sure how fast this is going, but I know it's confusing me, and that might be a problem.

Friday: Subway incident.

Sunday: Ultimatum (a.k.a. baseball bat)

Monday: Interrogation

Tuesday: Debrouillard confrontation

Wednesday: Landy Phone Call, Hailey Death

Thursday: File-reading

Friday: Deiter questioning, Stairwell confrontation, David Webb reintroduction, plan. (On Landy's side:) HUB surrounding, Lansing call.

Saturday: Daniel Pike email (I know, this really screws up chronology!)

So there you have it. A timeline that somewhat makes sense.

**3: **Towards the end of this chapter, Pam begins to mention Stockholm. In _Ultimatum_, there is a scene where Landy and Vosen are verbally battling it out and Vosen asks Landy: "What was Stockholm, then?" Just using my super-sleuth skills, I'm going to assume that Stockholm was a very big screw-up of Pam's, one that she probably doesn't like thinking about. I snuck it in because I'm cool that way.

**4: **Did you notice Mo, **lazaefare**? Thanks to you, there's a whole new wing I can take with this, and on that wing we have the Mo Panov 2007 version. In the books, Panov was a psychologist who worked with Conklin (and David, once he was David) to try to rein back Cain and Bourne. It's because of Panov and Conklin that Cain didn't kill Marie in _Supremacy_, because that woulda been baad.

**5: **I don't believe that the codewords for "safehouse" is a SE-200, and I highly doubt that a PNI-37 clearance exists. However, I do know that if you want to make something sound badass and super-secret, you use a lot of letters and numbers. Just keep that in mind the next time you're writing your spy novel--it certainly helps.

**6: **As always, reviews have made my muse very forgiving and kind to me. Many thanks to **ClaMIA, G.A. Clive **(sorry, no Hailey rebirths), **rebelsoccer** and **Balrogsbreath** for their awesome reviews. I always love to hear (or is it read?) from you guys.

Okey-doke...I think that this **A/N** is long enough to make a novel in itself, so I'll just stop now and hope you enjoy these chapters.

Love,

LF


	28. Bug Infestation

**I**t's the phone call that is Dan's first ominous sign that today is a bad day. After kissing Anne, and lovingly hugging Urchins One, Two, Three and Four, Daniel Pike drove his car to work with a somewhat happier lead foot than usual.

...before, of course, the phone call.

Which blew everything to shit.

"Hello?" he says, eyes focused on the road ahead.

"Check your email when you get to work," a deadened voice replies, cold and heartless as a piece of slate.

"I–"

Dial tone. Dan frowns, considering the phone for a long hard moment before he turns his attention away from the street and flicks the mobile at the passenger seat. It bounces on the fake leather interior and catapults to the floor, sliding underneath a mat.

The frown deepens.

Yeah. That is the first sign of a bad day.

The second comes when Pike reaches the Precinct.

* * *

The email is simple enough. Coming from an unspecified sender identified only as "Trackman" the title reads coldly. 

"You're at work."

Yes, he is, isn't he?

Dan glances around his desk for a moment, making sure that Alex, Michael and Beck are all away answering calls before double-tapping the title.

Long, painful moment of waiting. He tries to mentally will his computer to load at lightning speed, but there's no such luck. Ten agonizing seconds flicker by as the tower hisses gently, and then quietly the message appears.

Ariel font. Size twelve. Bold and in caps.

**CHILDREN ARE EASY TO LOSE IF YOU DON'T WATCH THEM CLOSELY. **

Urchins One, Two, Three and Four. Dan bares his teeth, but reluctantly continues to scroll down.

**PUT ON GLASSES. **

Cold humor. Huh. He gets it...

**COBWEBS CAUSE BASEMENTS TO BECOME FILTHY. **

_So do rats..._

**GET A BROOM. **

** FOR PEST CONTROL, PLEASE CALL 203-1857. **

** FOR BABYSITTING SERVICES, PLEASE CALL 283-4621. **

** FOR EYE CARE SPECIALISTS, PLEASE CALL 293-1638. **

** THE TRACKMAN THANKS YOU.**

Dan pauses for a minute, lips pursed and brow furrowed as he tries to decipher the meaning of the message in front of him, then sighs.

He knows what this means.

And he knows which number he has to call.

The Post-It comes out, the pen cap flicked off. Dan reaches for his cell phone in his pocket, shooting another look around him, and then dials quickly.

The phone rings once.

" Pest control." A voice states simply.

"I have," Dan says, "a very bad spider infestation in my basement."

The voice clicks once. "How bad?"

Dan tries to keep his voice from shaking."Well, my eyesight isn't as good as it used to be, but they seem to be of the more poisonous variety."

The voice clicks again, twice this time. "We will send a specialist, Gordon Webb, over to help with this problem as soon as possible."

Dan scribbles the name quickly, ignoring the fact that he can barely read his own handwriting.

"Where might I find him? I don't trust these bug-type people unless I have seen them first. Ya know, with valuables and everything."

Pause. The voice isn't used to more elaborate answers and takes a moment to clean through the code. " Suite 103, 52nd floor of the Alistair Building. Today and tommarrow are the only days he has open for appointments, so you might want to meet quickly."

Chickenscratch continues. Dan bites the inside of his cheek and looks at the information in front of him before forcing the words beyond his larynx.

"Thank you, Pest Control."

"Trackman Services does what it can for people with bug problems," the voice replies.

Dan hangs up. Exhaling loudly through his nose, he leans forward in his chair, touching his forehead to the desk.

A cough comes from the doorframe

"Since when do _you _get bug problems?"

Dan moves his head only fractionally, pushing upwards just enough to get a good idea as to whose Bronx accent is nailing him to the biggest screw up of his life.

Beck Ell, superior officer and partner, stands patiently at the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

"Well?"

Dan's head thumps back down onto the desk.

Three strikes.

Today is definitely from hell.

* * *

**A/N: **Hmmm...deja vu? Vu ja de? I say, this chapter looks eerily familiar...

Yeah. I just reposted it, as to give us a more correct and recent timeline. But there will be more! I guarantee it.

Many, many heartfelt thanks to **CLAmia!, gostlcards, G.A. Clive, lazaefair, critical smoke **and the very observant **Mazennce**, who pointed out a very large boo-boo of mine that I'll probably fix here shortly.

Well...happy readings. :)


	29. Jealousy and the 5 Series

He doesn't know_ why _the youngish, so-called "exceptional" has been transferred to his precinct (and though he asked his superior, the man hadn't elaborated), but there is something about twenty-two year old Daniel Pike that Beck Ell instantaneously distrusts.

Sergeant Nicols thinks the guy is a riot – "he's got a great since of humor, Captain" – and Lieutenant Sacohy talks almost reverently about how Pike single-handedly disarmed some thug near Union Square, but Beck doesn't fall for it.

He doesn't like the man. He is too sharp, too smart and – perhaps most suspiciously – his car is too nice.

Beck has seen it once before, parked in the garage under the station. A beautiful BMW 5 series coupe, with gorgeous rims and those fantastic angel-eye headlights.

Beck works hard at his job...maybe to a point of fanaticism.

But he still doesn't own the BMW of his dreams and often takes the subway to get from point A to point B.

Is he jealous?

Hell, yes.

But Beck is more suspicious than anything else.

Which brings him here, shoulder braced against the door frame, staring into a man's office who he thinks is most certainly up to his nose in something.

Bug infestation, huh?

Bug infestation his ass.

Sure, there WAS that notorious KFC/Taco-Bell infestation thing in Queens a few months back (and god, that was disgusting...Beck Ell has quite a stomach and still found himself gagging at the stories that his buddy over in the 9th precinct told him), but most people don't have bug problems.

Especially if they own a gorgeous BMW 5 series with angel-eyes.

_Jealous, you cranky old bastard?_

Yes. But he's not going to admit that up front.

Instead, Beck focuses his attention on the man seated behind the desk, head resting on the table and shoulders stiff.

Defensive posturing. Beck isn't a detective but he's been around New York's finest and filthiest to know fear when he sees it.

He'd be curious to know why if he wasn't more intent on figuring out what the hell the slimy scumbag in front of him is doing in his off-time.

_A little more than green with envy, Beck. _

But there's more to this than that Bimmer in the garage.

And both sides of him know that.

So maybe that fear makes Beck Ell lessen the force of his attack slightly; instead of completely surprising Daniel Pike, he clears his throat to give him a warning.

The man's head lifts only fractionally off the desk to see him and even then, Beck can see his eyes widen.

Small twist of satisfaction. Score one for wannabe-detective Ell.

Now the clincher.

"Since when do _you _get bug problems?"

Pike's response is somewhat anti-climactic; there's a thud as he drops his head back to the desk, and a groan.

Beck is disappointed – he expected the guy to at least _try _acting, give him a reasonable smile and excuse.

But instead he only acts like he got caught with his pants down.

Yes, there is something more to this than that sexy car in the parking garage. But Ell is not going to relent his attack – surely the man realizes that now.

"Well?"

Pike shifts, rests his chin on the desk so that he stares directly at Beck from the surface and swallows audibly.

"We got a spider problem a couple of days ago, down in our basement."

Beck raises an eyebrow, trying to feign genuine shock. "No shit?"

Pike pulls his face into something resembling disgust.

"Yeah."

"What kind?"

Pike blinks, pulling his head slightly off the table in a clear gesture of not understanding.

"What?"

_Two-zero, jerk-off. _

"What kind of spider?" Beck emphasizes each word carefully.

Pike shrugs, and suddenly flows back into his chair like being caught pants-down did not just happen

"Beats me," he continues. "Didn't look good, though, and the wife freaked out."

"Don't they eat the bad bugs, though?"

Pike's eyes harden only fractionally. "They might, but I don't want to find out the hard way that they're poisonous."

The eyebrow is raised again, this time asking for elaboration.

"Kids." Pike says, simply.

It's an interesting point that Beck himself hadn't thought of, and a small part of him gives a nod of approval to the young man across the desk.

Beck wouldn't have thought of such an excuse in that quick of time. Way to go, kid.

"Hmm." is the only response that Beck can come up with, and at that point, Daniel Pike's cell-phone suddenly vibrates on the table, startling them both.

Pike looks up, asking permission from his superior to answer, and Beck jerks his head as a 'yes.'

But he gives a reminder: "Squad car in fifteen," he says. "We have patrols today."

Daniel Pike gives a firm "yes, sir" and then turns his attention to the phone, flipping it open with an audible snap.

"Hello?"

Beck moves away from the door and starts walking away when he hears a click behind him. He turns slightly.

Pike's head is a sliver between the doorjamb and the frame as he closes the door, and he doesn't acknowledge the man paused outside in the hallway as the knob gives a click.

"Bastard," Beck Ell whispers under his breath, stiff-legged as he walks away. "Sneaky little bastard."


	30. The Other Boy

_The water is so cold. So dangerously and treacherously cold... _

_ He can't see, and maybe that's the worst part of it. Thrashing, reeling about, trying to find _air _and only coming up with the poor substitute of H20, he's realizing that they were serious when they dragged him in here, asked him whether or not he was really ready to _commit.

_So cold...so awfully cold. _

_ And he can't escape it. His legs find solid ground (and maybe he finds comfort in that – this blind pit doesn't go on forever) and he kicks off, kicks _up _to what should be oxygen. _

_ Only to dimly hear a clang as his back hits metal and he's thrown into the water, not breathing, not seeing, lungs breaking and oh, God... _

_ A voice. Metallic and dead, it somehow slices through water and growls in his ears. _

_ "Bring him up." _

_ And then he can breathe. _

_ Not well, barely at all, but there's air coming through this shroud trapped on his head and he can _breathe.

_He didn't think he'd be so happy to feel air in his life. _

_ "Do you know why you're here?" _

_ Still can't see, but he recognizes the voice and knows the evil being that sits behind it. _

_ The _Other Boy – _the one David has kept silent for so many years, has ignored and hidden away and not had to deal with – is waiting. He can feel him behind the temporal lobes, eager for an entrance, and frantically tries to shut him out. He's too old for this MPD shit – he got rid of his demons years ago. _

_ With dread, he's beginning to realize that answers are irrelevant to these people. They're going to dunk him no matter what he does. But he answers, anyway; David doesn't know why they're doing this, but the truth is more important than anything else. _

_ He coughs, gasps, shakes because he's so _goddamn cold _but manages to rasp out a _"no" _when he finally gets enough air. _

_ Essentially that's true – he was recruited because of outstanding academic achievement and a rather interesting tragedy that was believed to give him the proper impetus to serve his country accordingly. _

"The Agency is made of smart spooks, Mr. Webb," _Conklin told him. "_We don't give a shit if you were a pro-footballer or excellent soccer player here. You're smart, first. You're athletic second."

_But his answer here is wrong. He's supposed to be a smart spook first, but he just made a dumb spook decision and decided that he didn't know why he was being forcibly drowned. _

_ "That answer," the metallic voice informs David, "is wrong." Pause, then: "Again." _

_ David fights this time, kicking out hard at what has to be the steel prison he was just in and bracing himself against it, trying to lower his center of gravity and thus any likelihood that he'll be easily put in that cold again. _

_ But he has forgotten; he is but one blind, bound, nearly-hypothermic man against many seeing, able men who are much, much stronger than him when their energy is combined. _

_ Someone cuffs him. Another hits a pressure point in his neck and he hisses, feeling pain shoot up and down his spine. A third grabs at his head and forcibly throws him down into the water. _

_ The cold stuns him into momentary suspension until he hears the slide of a metal grate above him. _

_ The escape is being sealed. _

_ David kicks off again, but – as the Other Boy and the metal slamming into his skull inform him – he's too late. _

_ It begins again, that cycle of bewilderment and cold and fear because this is _so much like Mommy's house.

_He doesn't want to be there again. _

_ Do they keep him in for longer, or is it just that he's getting colder and his brain is breaking that makes the time seem so painfully long? _

_ He doesn't know, but suddenly he's inhaling oxygen and hearing his own labored, frightened breathing and feeling hands on his arms, lightly reminding him that the tub is a short, painful trip away. _

_ The voice clears its throat this time. David the psychologist recognizes that as fear, maybe discomfort while the Other Boy tells him he's wrong: the voice is merely heightening the tension. _

_ Metallic, icy and dead. _

_ "Do you know why you're here?" it asks him again. _

_ Other Boy and David are torn between truth and survival, the latter desperately trying to silence that _thing _that has been quiet for so long and fight on his own. _

_ But it's too late – he's too far in and residual nightmares are floating to the surface, bringing with them the Other Boy. _

_ Other Boy answers before David, denying that he knows why he is being dunked like this. _

_ "No." _

_ The voice is more irritated this time. _

_ "Incorrect." _

_ Pause. The grip on David's arms tighten. _

_ "Again." _

_ The Other Boy battles this bout, learning from David's mistakes and stomping _hard _on the foot of the man behind, making solid contact and hearing an expulsion of breath in surprise. _

_ Sure, it's a girl maneuver, but he's made contact where David didn't, and that's all that counts. Another foot shuffles near him, and he hooks it, pulling back. _

_ Scuff on linoleum. He tripped a bastard. _

_ The Other Boy is pleased. _

_ The handlers are not, though, and this time the Other Boy knows they're becoming aggravated. The slap on the side of his head is more severe, and the heave-ho into the tub is such that the Other Boy's head clips the edge of the tub as he goes down. _

_ They leave him in there longer this time. He knows this. _

_ But when he goes up and they ask him if he knows why he's here, the Other Boy silences David and speaks for himself. _

_ "No." _

_ Is it a lie? Is it the truth? _

_ It's not clear to the Other Boy, though both David and him know that this might very well be what they unwittingly signed up for. _

_ Maybe so, but he's not going to submit. Not now, maybe not ever. _

_ Each time is longer, and each time David gets weaker and the Other Boy gets stronger before, finally, they throw him into the water for a fifth time and the world goes black. _

_ They can't revive him. _

_ And they can't drown him. _

_ The Other Boy awakens in a tiny room with the dead eyes of the Doctor looking at him and knows that he's won this bout. _

_ "Congratulations," the Doctor says, low baritone that reminds the Other Boy (David screams from a corner, trying to get back in) of a toad. "You have completed the first part of your training." _

_ David wants to ask what's next, but the Other Boy muffles him, warning. _

_ They must watch and wait. There are no other options. The handlers might let David go, maybe let him slide by if he breaks down, but the Other Boy isn't going to allow that to happen. _

_ The Witch did this psycho-babble torture-shit to him when he was three and he survived; these bastards can't break him when he's twenty-one. He's older, now – stronger. _

_ "You have proven," the Doctor continues, "that you can commit." _

_ The Other Boy watches warily. David swallows nervously. _

_ "But we are not done." _

_ The Doctor shifts, large frame making the cheap metal chair beneath him groan, and slowly rises to his feet. Imperious with his glasses and his black eyes and his suit, there is not one sign that he had initiated drowning procedures on this young man, that he condoned torture for whatever hellish reasons. _

_ There is no sign this man gives a shit, and for that the Other Boy hates him, making it clear as he stares defiantly across the room, daring the man to make a move. _

_ The Doctor does, walking casually across the tiny room and moving past the handlers towards the door. He notices the glare, smiles slightly at it, but makes no comment, instead only nodding towards one of the larger, square men in the corner. _

_ David's exit closes with an audible _slam.

_ The Other Boy's entrance opens with the resounding echo that follows. _

_ Silence crumples around the room, filling in the harsh flourescent lighting with a sickening nothingness. A few of the men shift in their chairs – barely audible squeaks – but otherwise they are perfectly still. _

_ The handlers watch. _

_ And wait. _

_ And sit, silent, frozen; statues with scars and muscles that dare David Webb to try to fight back. _

_ Would he? _

_ No...but the Other Boy would if he had an exit and absolutely no brain. _

_ Neither of them are fools; one realizes a grave error has been made by choosing this program, the other is evaluating for weaknesses he can exploit. They don't know what this is (David is getting a faint idea), but they understand that it is yet another test. _

_ The Other Boy that tells David that they can't break down, but David doesn't answer. _

_ Two hours in, the Other Boy goes quiet again (and David hopes, maybe prays, that he's banished him away) and in the wake of silence, David has found that he is terribly, horribly tired. _

_ The shirt is only slight damp now, warmed by his body heat but still too cold for conditions like this. He's shivering, internal thermometer desperately trying to amp up the body heat while at the same time keep him functional. _

_ A book informed David, once upon a time, that sleep was deeper when an environment was cold; for humans, it was form of pseudo-hibernation, trying to draw blood away from external functions and keep the main machine working as smoothly and efficiently as possible. _

_ David has always been fascinated by the shrewd economy of the human body – how it knows when to shut-down and when to wake up, when to react and when to defend. _

_ It's an incredible organism. _

_ Shame it's crapping out on him now. _

_ Hypothermia's dragging him in, not helped by the asthmatic wheeze of an air-conditioner shaft directly above his seat (no doubt on purpose) or the wet clothes on his body. He has not moved from his position in two hours, has not done more than shift slightly, brace his forearms on his knees or cough occasionally, and he can feel it, blood cooled and congealed, sluggish behind his skin. _

_ And the handlers still watch him. _

_ Unmoving. _

_ It's because they're so still that David starts to not notice them and his eyes begin to close, drifting off. _

_ Sleep sounds so good right now. So safe. _

_ He's halfway down that dark staircase when a _crack _sounds through the room, slapping him awake. He tries to ignore it, tries to go down and down and down but suddenly there's voice at his ear, and pressure on the back of his neck. _

_ "Wake up." it says harshly. _

_ He's fifteen years old, and Cindy is prodding him from bed at 5:21 (he's supposed to be up at 5:15). He grumbles, burrows down deeper into the comforter and attempts to fade out. _

_ The voice again. Harder pressure. _

_ "Get. Up." _

_ He wants to say no, but maybe pretending this is all a dream will work, too. _

_ A squeal of chair legs being pushed violently. David's eyes snap open as his shoulder collides with hard linoleum floor. _

_ It's not severe pain, but it's enough – he is awake, now. And the handler standing over him, expressionless, waits for him to make another move. _

_ The Other Boy rises. Slowly. Eyes never leaving the handler as he carefully walks over to his upturned chair and sets it up. Eyes not even blinking as he sits back down and braces his forearms against his knees. _

_ The handler silently goes back to his chair and perches down on it. _

_ And the game begins once more. _

* * *

"Gooood Morning, Bronx! Looks like it's going to be a beautiful day, highs in the mid-eighties with a chance of afternoon showers. Traffic from I-278 to Grand Station be aware of an accident southbound. Expected wait approximately fifteen to twenty minutes. Relatively clear traffic flowing from Bronx River and Hutchinson Parkways; construction on westbound I-95 towards George Washington might cause a delay for commuters headi–"

Jason flicks at the radio irritably, and within seconds silence fills the car.

A headache gnaws at his skull. Again.

Wincing, Jason closes his eyes and brings the heels of his hands up, bracing them by his nose and pushing, hard, mentally trying to will the headache _out. _It doesn't work and, if anything, only heightens that stretching pain in the back of his head. He gives up after a moment, relenting, and instead looks around the passenger seat for his backpack.

It managed to drop onto the floor of the passenger seat and, stretching over the console, Jason grabs it with a grunt and pulls it to him, unzipping the outermost pocket and weeding around.

He feels the knife, a few coins and some scraps of paper before finally hearing the rattle of an ibuprofen bottle. Latching onto it, he moves the bottle out and zips up the pack in one smooth motion before looking around for water.

He can dry swallow. It's not terribly difficult, but that doesn't mean he enjoys it.

Half-empty plastic bottle sits in the cup holder, not moved since he brought it from the trunk last night and sat outside Gordon Webb's house, waiting. He picks it up with one hand while flipping open the cap to the pain-reliever with the other.

Jason gets three instead of two, knowing what his body can and cannot handle, and washes the pills down with the water, ignoring that plastic aftertaste.

Cain is, as always, amused by this and makes it known.

_You can't do stakeouts any more. You fall asleep. _

To Jason, it wasn't 'sleep' asomuch a semi-conscious state. That's how it sometimes is with these scraps of memory; they come and go as they please, occasionally when he's conscious – other times when he is partially there, and most frequently when he's not – and drop a few facts in before flying out the window.

And there's nothing he can do about it.

...not yet, anyway.

A kink in the neck forces Jason to roll his head, satisfied with the crack of cartilage that snaps afterwards, and after a minute he tries to stretch the best he can in the driver's seat, moved back and lowered as it is.

Some success. Not much, but enough to get blood moving and the brain more alert.

His focus doesn't feel as sharp, his limbs more tired and his brain preoccupied with something else. He feels it in the way the morning light bothers him, his irritation with the radio and his own reluctance to wake up fully.

It bothers him.

Cain doesn't give a shit about public opinion (and to be honest, neither does Jason), but something in Gordon Webb's eyes was troubling. The man had looked at him like he was a ghost for a large duration of their talk up in the office, caught between curiosity, fear and horror at the sight in front of him. When he walked beside Jason, he did it carefully, as if knowing that there was something very dangerous about the person next to him and he was scared that the stranger would snap.

Jason knows he's dealing with a civilian who, while surprisingly sharp for a desk-jockey, is scared shitless of him and might be prone to making mistakes, and that makes him uneasy.

He doesn't know what happened between the confrontation on the staircase and him abruptly standing behind a desk, looking at ILW finance numbers, but he wishes he did. Gordon told David Webb things about his past, and Jason wasn't there to see it, to hear it and experience that recall himself.

And it pisses him off.

Jason clears his throat, tries to pull back to attention and turns his gaze to the iron-bars that cover the Webbs' front door.

There is a tension in the air. He can feel it in the car, outside on the sidewalk, and even in the Webb household a few hundred feet away.

Something is going to happen.

He can feel it.

* * *

**A/N: **Depracating muse is back to tell me this chapter sucks, and I agree whole-heartedly with her. But it's a chapter, and I guess bit-by bit we're moving forward.

Many thanks to **critical smoke, Maxennce **and **ClaMIA! **for their reviews. As always, they are greatly appreciated.

Well -- tell me what to fix here. I feel like my sentences have very repetitive beginnings and the structure all around is a little...lame. What can be fixed.

Thankee.


	31. Looks Like Somethin'

Gordon Webb slept.

He is surprised, unnerved by the knowledge that he cannot recall any events in the labyrinthian world of dreams. There were no nightmares. No deaths. Just...sleep.

It is six in the morning. Behind shuttered windows, New York stretches its legs and yawns. The Night Shift is shuffling home, the Day Shift is awakening. Exchanging their punch cards at the gate.

Gordon, much as he despises it, is part of the Day Shift.

And he must go to work.

(That word has more meaning today than it usually does, and he's scared of it – more than he wants to confess.)

At first, throwing his legs over the side of the couch, Gordon feels nothing besides that nagging feeling in his back. But then there's an attempt to sit up, and a flurry of soreness races throughout his limbs and up into his gut.

It is a very unpleasant sensation, and Gordon's pissed off because he knows this is the signal of a body unfamiliar to real physical exertion – even if the exertion didn't last longer than twenty minutes, tops.

He's out of shape, and he is feeling it. Of course, the couch could also be to blame (terrible for a back and any muscles unused to labor) but Gordon knows he can only blame the temporary exile of a lumpy sofa slightly. The rest is entirely his fault.

This was the third night on the sofa. Adrian Webb – smart-ass fifteen year old that he is – noticed the sleeping arrangement the night before, up thirty-minutes before he usually was as he started the coffee pot and sat down at the island with Cap'n Crunch.

Gordon woke fifteen minutes after, stirring on the couch with a muffled grunt. He got up with a groan, shuffled blearily into the kitchen and fumbled around for a mug. Two minutes later he was at the island, staring with bloodshot eyes at Adrian Webb's cereal bowl.

The problem with smart kids is that they pick up on the subtle (and sometimes more obvious) nuances of family rather quickly. Such was the case with Adrian, and as he wordlessly watched his father stagger around like a midnight drunk, his eyes lit up with something resembling amusement.

The Old Man sat down. His boy stared at him, while he stared at the boy's cereal bowl.

A smirk came on Adrian's lips and he gently picked up the Cap'n Crunch box and shook it.

"Hungry?"

The Old Man shot him a look, and Adrian abruptly went back to eating his cereal.

Gordon notes with some relief (and some disappointment – more and more as Adrian gets older, he sees less of him) that the smart-ass isn't up, and Lily hadn't snuck her way into the kitchen for a 2 am water craving. It is awkward enough that Adrian realizes the situation between his parents, and that Lily is beginning to pick up on it. It is even worse that Gordon is still fumbling for an understanding of the suddenly paranoid world around him.

It is better if he faced the couch-exile on his own, and this morning he does that, rolling to his feet and stretching ungracefully as he shuffles towards the kitchen, on auto-pilot as he turns on the coffee machine and fumbles around for a water glass. Not bothering to turn on the kitchen light.

It's Monday, but no one seems to really care, and even hyperactive, I-might-miss-something-if-I-sleep Lily is peacefully curled up in her purple comforter, surrounded by various stuffed animals. Adrian (no surprise here) snores loudly from his room, and Gordon can faintly hear the sounds of Maris tripping into the bathroom.

The lull in his house, his home, is comforting to Gordon, but he feels tension thrumming at the back of his skull. Halfway through the business section of the _New York Times _(which he knows he's only partially paying attention to), he realizes that he's tapping a forefinger on the island counter.

Gordon stops the finger, then, with a sigh, drops the business section.

Three days. Three days and nothing has happened. Nothing from Jason Bourne (and Gordon hates the fact he can't make himself call that man David), nothing from Debrouillard or Dieter or even Marty, calling him up to tell him that something's gone wrong.

Where is the action? Where's the goddamn phone call? Where's the Ludlum sense of pacing?

_What is going on?_

The world is acting like nothing happened to Gordon Webb. The world is acting like he never saw (what he thinks is) his long-lost brother, like he didn't find a hiccup in company financial records, like his boss wasn't scared of a boogey-monster bigger than his own morals.

The world is wearing a mask of false innocence and it's pissing Gordon off. He's past the point of thinking he's crazy, and now he's positive that something is taking place and he's not going to know about it until it's far too late.

_Too late to pull out now. Too late to pretend that you just had a bad nightmare. _

It's the truth – the ignorance-bliss bubble has exploded, shattering with an h-bomb _bang _in that tiny part of Gordon's skull, and he can't pretend he didn't hear the ear-destroying sound of detonation. It happened. It was _real. _And now he has to play the game, whether he likes it or not.

Gordon slowly gets up from the bar-stool to get ready for work.

...and things just go downhill from there.

* * *

The desk jockeys are nervous, and Marty is fidgeting like an ADHD kid on acid.

"Didyougetmymessage?" he spits when Gordon steps in front of the cubicle.

"I saw the 'urgent' part but –"

"Chad Dieter is dead." Marty snaps, quickly and with a mix of fear and contempt in his voice.

_Bourne._

Something lurches in Gordon's stomach.

"What?"

Marty shakes his head, fidgeting, fidgeting, fidgeting as he continues. "Suicide or something. Last night."

"What happene–"

"We don't know," Marty cuts in, yet again. "We don't fucking know." He leans forward now, eyes panicking as his voice gets softer and faster. "A multi-billion dollar negotiation is about to nose-dive into Hell, and if it falls, _we _fall. Do you get what I'm saying?"

_Shit. _

Gordon runs a hand through (what's left of) his hair, knowing that his hand is shaking as he does so. Marty continues to look up from his seated position, waiting for a reaction.

He gets it. Fast.

"Um..."

Marty owl blinks.

"Let me..." and Gordon trips a little bit, "_shit_, let me sit down."

Sidlak pulls out a footstool from under his desk and wordlessly slides it over. Gordon barely collapses onto it before bursting out with another curse, this one louder.

"Fuck."

"You're telling me," Marty says.

"So –" and the dazed look Gordon Webb gives Marty Sidlak can only be described as a cross between being punched directly under the chin and being blinded by high-beams "– what are we going to do?"

Sidlak shrugs."That depends on what we're told to do. I'm going to assume for the sake of investors, we should keep this quiet."

"And then?"

"Negotiations begin again, this time with a different puppet on the podium." Marty leans forward, and he looks more alarmed now than he did five seconds ago. "Why are you asking me this? You know how the protocol works, you've seen the change of hands."

Gordon considers, fleetingly, to tell his cubicle comrade what he thinks just happened, and who he think is responsible. But just as he opens his mouth to say it, he pauses.

_You have to the play the game, even if you don't want to._

An excuse comes out instead. "Sorry. Not thinking well this morning."

"Clearly."

Gordon shoots Sidlak a look. Marty says nothing, clearly unfazed, and for a long minute the two sit in silence.

Gordon finally clears his throat and stands. Marty owl-blinks at him yet again.

"I'm going to go to my office, and I'm going to talk to a lot of people."

"Anything else?"

Gordon shakes his head. "No."

And turns on his heel to leave.

He suspects by the "see you then" that Marty gave a half-hearted flop of his hand as a good bye, but by that point he's already down the hallway, walking quickly towards his office. Deborah Mann says hello to him and Gordon absent-mindedly responds. Phones ring in the background and snatches of cubicle conversation hit his ears as he moves.

It takes Gordon some time to realize that someone is calling his name. And though at first he thinks it's Marty and considers ignoring it, quickly he understands that the pitch isn't fast enough. And it's feminine.

_Who...?_

And then Gordon stops, turns around.

Erin Casey, Debrouillard's secretary, stands five feet away, manila folder in hand and a muffled look of anxiety on her face.

"You're wanted in Mr. Debrouillard's office," she says, quietly.

Gordon's stomach lurches further.

* * *

"What is this about?" Gordon asks Erin once they're out of the general earshot of the cubicles.

She looks over at him only partially, pushing the up-arrow for the elevator.

"You're aware that Chad Dieter is dead?"

This might be a trick question, and Gordon doesn't want his ass to get chewed more than it already is. But as he opens his mouth to lie, Erin stops him.

"Of course you are," she says, sounding resigned. "Just like everyone else on this goddamn floor."

Silence.

The elevator _pings_ softly, notifying the lobby of its arrival. Gordon moves to the side, waiting until the early morning crowd sweeps out of the cramped elevator, and glances over at Erin Casey.

She strides in confidently, three-inch heels clicking over the metal elevator strip, and doesn't look backwards to see if Gordon Webb follows.

Someone calls for them to wait. Gordon almost instinctually lifts up an arm to stop the doors from closing, but Erin flicks the "close" button just as the someone comes within reach.

She waits a moment before speaking.

"Dieter's death looked like suicide."

He hears the particular emphasis on _looked _and clears his throat. Erin makes eye-contact, giving him indication she's listening.

" 'Looked'?"

Her lips thin into a line of distaste. "These days, in this business, one can never be sure. We want to help as much as we can in the investigation of Chad Dieter's death as to make sure that negotiations between Douglas and Debrouillard run smoothly."

It is such a scripted, rehearsed response that Gordon wants to throw-up, but he has a feeling that she's doing for her benefit just as well as his – she's practicing her lines before she has to recite them to save her ass. He understands and knows the feeling very well.

"And why am I here?"

This time she turns fully, facing him as the numbers of floors continue to rise and rise

"You were the last major contact that Chad Dieter had with this company. There was obviously a disagreement between you two prior to his death, and the New York City police department just wants to make sure that nothing went beyond that."

"So I'm being questioned?"

Erin's shield of ice cracks slightly, and she shifts uncomfortably, moving the manila folder under one arm to another.

"Yes." And then, emboldened – "but if you don't have anything to hide, then nothing should happen."

Gordon nods his agreement_._

The elevator stops, braced on Debrouillard's floor. Erin is, yet again, first out and like before, Gordon follows her cautiously, sensing danger.

The door to Debrouillard's office is open, and as Erin and Gordon approach, Gordon sees the familiar head of his mentor rise.

He's paler than when Gordon last saw him – weight and stature drooping like a flower in blistering Death valley heat – and he looks strained, bags hiding under his eyes and skin stretching over his cheekbones.

If Gordon were to be frank, he'd say that Eric Debrouillard looks like hell warmed over.

Debrouillard pushes himself off his chair with a grunt, smiling brokenly as he reaches across the desk and grasps Gordon's hand.

"Nice to see you, Webb," he says.

His grip feels clammy, but Gordon smiles back.

"Likewise, Eric."

"You know this is merely precautionary," Debrouillard says, "but we want to aid the NYPD as much as possible in any investigation of Chad Dieter's death." He motions abruptly to a man that Gordon didn't notice before, and the officer rises.

Solid looking, short blond hair and a crooked nose that indicates a long life in New York. Gordon sizes up the cop in front of him and tries his damndest not to show fear as he reaches over and shakes hands.

"Gordon Webb, this is Lieutenant Daniel Pike of the NYPD." Debrouillard says in the background.

Daniel Pike leans over and smiles. His grip is like a vise.

"Nice to meet you," he says.

* * *

**A/N: **...my, god. Is it physically possible that I'm back? Is that actually for real?

Tell you honestly, I have no idea. Whatsoever. But I want to finish this son-of-a-bitch and I want to finish it with a bang -- I forced myself to write out a plot outline from now until the end and dammit, I WILL FOLLOW IT, even if it kills me.

Folks, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I didn't update this for a good six months. I was a bad author and a bad writer and I fell like a bad person all around. I should know better. I should not make excuses. SO HERE I AM.

Please critique if you find something's wrong, but something always will happen and good criticism will always help it get better.

Many thanks to **critical smoke, Maxennce, **ever-faithful **G.A. Clive, ClaMIA!, jenamc **and the grasshoppah-in-training, **AncientEgyptianDreams.**

Enjoy, critique, and read. Sorry for my procrastination. We should be picking up speed shortly.

Thanks for your time. :)


	32. Go To Hell

He calls Chad Dieter's number from a small cafe's land line, trying to ignore than less-than discreet glances the nearby barista shoots his way. The woman looked shocked – repulsed, even – at his insistence that he did not have his cell phone, even when Jason explained to her as succinctly as possible that it would be a quick call.

He regrets his decision to not telephone from Grand Central; even with the threat of security cameras and partially-vigilant cops, the anonymity of the place would be far more comfortable than a small, cramped café, where a post 9-11 New Yorker watches his every move uneasily. Jason looks nothing like a terrorist (for God's sake, he's the fucking _Chameleon_), but the woman senses something that other people usually ignore, and this makes her very dangerous. He already blew any pretense by declaring he had no cell phone. Any action from this point on could determine how long Jason remains the ever-changing, ever-escaping Chameleon.

And truly? If someone wants to find him, they will. Bourne is a creature of crowds, invisibility and darkness, but so are the dozens of other state-sanctioned weapons in the world. He is not invisible, and he is not the best.

So Jason has to be careful.

The line rings. Jason refrains from making any uneasy movements and smiles when the barista yet again looks at him. She narrows her eyes for a moment, giving a tight-lipped, false response, but at this point an order is shouted from the corner and she moves away – reluctantly.

The phone is picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

Not the same voice. Different pitch, different emphasis on vowels.

_It's not Chad Dieter. _

"Hi, is this Chad Dieter speaking?"

There is a strained beat before the voice speaks again.

"Who is this?"

"Uh – " _Don't 'uh,' you stupid bastard, _" – Frank Johnson, from Budgeting." Cautious pause. "Is this Chad Dieter?"

"No," the voice drawls, slow and irritated.

"Umm...do you know where I can reach him?"

Across the connection, this unfamiliar voice clicks its tongue once before responding. "Chad Dieter is dead."

Jason Bourne is reeling and the phone is about to fall out of his grasp when Cain grabs the line.

_You cannot fall apart. Adapt. _

"Oh shit," Jason says, because this is not only what he's thinking but what would be the most convincing thing to say. "Jesus, what – "

"What did you say your name was again?" This voice is cold, and Jason's fighting tooth and nail not to cut and run – get the hell out because this doesn't seem right.

"Frank Johnson." Turns up the irritation, indignance. "Who the hell are you?"

The voice pauses again. A breath.

And then the icy and unforgiving response of a dial tone.

The trick here is to exhale slowly and calmly and not panic. Jason carefully puts the phone back on its receiver. The barrista is now completely immersed in a double-grande vente latte (or whatever that is – some rattled off Italian that sounds sophisticated and expensive), so there is no distrustful glance in the direction of the phone or Jason.

He takes this opportunity to get out as quickly as possible from the coffee shop – ducking past the bulky man in the trench coat, the sparrow-like college grad and the various tourists all crowded around the cashier, the tables and the chairs.

He gets out into the open, back into his shelter, his blanket and his cloak and then Jason Bourne starts walking, very fast, towards a subway station.

* * *

He calls Gordon Webb.

The straight course towards the subway is all wrong, too obvious and too noticeable; there is something in the air and he stops only for a second to think about what it might be before backtracking – running right before a crosslight turns into a red gauntlet and vanishing in and out of various shops and boutiques.

This is killing time. This is stalling and wasting time.

Something's off, though; Bourne doesn't need Cain to tell him that the past few days have made him painfully lazy and prone to attack when he feels that twitch in his legs, that urge to just take off.

It's not right and it doesn't work.

So Jason calls Gordon Webb from his cell.

Two rings. Three.

And then he hears the shaky expulsion of breath from the other side of the line.

"You killed him, didn't you?"

Some part of Jason locks up, stutters. The betrayal and fear in the question -- and the underlying rage running beneath it – is tangible.

"No," he says. He is not lying, for once – fully aware of where he was this morning and last night, fully cognizant as to what he _did _do to Chad Dieter and what he did not.

"I haven't heard from you in three days," Gordon begins. "Haven't heard a thing, seen a thing, spoken a thing. How can I be so sure that – "

"You can't."

"Then _why_?"

Jason dodges around a spindly-legged fashion-rack, bumping into a Saks Fifth Avenue and Sephora bag as he does so.

"There are people in this world," he says softly, "that are more than happy to get rid of you, and I am probably the only person at this point that can save you and your family. Do you understand – "

"Fuck you," the other Webb snarls. "Don't treat me like I'm the little kid and this is the big kid lecture about how I need to get my head out of your ass. There is shit happening to me that does not happen to normal people and – quite frankly? – I think I'm about done with it."

"You need to calm down."

"No," Gordon responds. "You need to go fuck yourself."

And Jason stops. Freezes right at the edge of subway terminal traffic. Cain and David fight in the back as equal and opposite reactions yelling different advice and different words as they attempt to muscle-in for center stage.

He shoves them back. Starts walking again.

"You do this," he warns, " and it will only end badly."

A low growl comes from the other side of the line. "You threatening me?"

In an instant the kid gloves are gone and the fatigue is full blown and there is nothing here but stone-cold reality.

"I'm telling you the truth. You want to play this game, want to go out on your own and see just how fucked-up the situation you're in is, go ahead. Roll the dice, Gordon. Watch how much you gamble goes to the house and leaves you in nothing with nothing. These people don't care about you, your family, your morals, your life and if you get in over your head, they'll snuff you and call it a good because really? They can hire another guy just like you within a couple of days.

"You're inconsequential. You're nothing but name on paper, money in the bank and some blood on the concrete. And you will stay this way – you will remain a nobody that got caught in something and ended up nothing – if you take those risks."

A minute passes that almost makes Jason fear that Gordon has hung up.

And then a shuddering inhalation breathes across the line. Gordon clears his throat.

"You go to hell," he says.

And ends the call.

* * *

**A/N: **Where the hell am I and why the hell did it take so long?

Good question. Cannot answer. Can say, though, that my new year's resolution (hurhur, aren't those fun?) is to finish this. I've actually got a nice and pretty plot outline all laid out and everything, and I can truthfully say that the end is probably only another five or six chapters. I think.

I would like to thank all of you that have continued reading this and continued hoping that -- maybe -- I'd get back and start writing this. I'm determined, I'll tell you.

So, first off: one reader pointed out very kindly that my idea of barbiturates as being the SUPR HEART-STOPPERS is somewhat false. While I have not fixed this error as I promised (no excuses shall be given, because they're all crap), I will say thank you so much for correcting me. And soon -- whether it be near or far -- I will get down to my red pen of shiny research and fix this bitch. Yet again, your honesty and critique is highly appreciated and revered.

Secondly:

**ClaMIA!, **the ever-faithful **G.A. Clive, Abblitz, IlfirinEstel**, **texamich, MKofGod, **grasshoppah-in-training (though she's probably a mastah now) **EgyptianDreams** and **mortetal **have been commenting and gently expressing their beliefs that, um, excuse me, you should really KEEP WRITING and FINISH THIS, and I am so happy that they did. I'm a broken record, but I thank you. Infinitely. The fact that this is still getting attention has forced me to still keep thinking about it, which I suppose is a good thing.

Kaykay. Going to post this now. I hope you guys enjoy. I guarantee that there will be more in the future. Within a month.


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